


Sharpe's Marines

by Sharpiefan



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Gen, Sharpe's Trafalgar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <img/>
  </p>
</div><p>What did Sharpe and the Marines of HMS Pucelle really make of each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beat to Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sharpe, Chase, Llewellyn or any of the characters from the Sharpe canon. I merely enjoy playing in Bernard Cornwell's sandbox, and I leave everything neat and tidy when I've finished. Mostly.
> 
> Author's Note: I can't believe this plotbunny didn't bite me sooner. It's been a while since I wrote anything in the Sharpe universe and the thought sneaked up on me: "What did Sharpe and the Marines of HMS Pucelle really make of each other?" I have also included Oxley, the drummer from the RPG Show the Colours, whose history there says he wasn't at Trafalgar, but I thought he ought to be, at least in this fic. I've tried to stick with facts and events as shown in Sharpe's Trafalgar but if I get anything wrong, I'm sorry and I'll do better next time. It has been a while since I wrote any Sharpe, so again, I may have slipped up with characterisation or background.

Ned Gilchrist stiffened as the Captain appeared, returning from his visit to the Indiaman. It was the appearance of the man by his side that took him aback and made him lose his place in calculating the value of the prize money he would receive for _Pucelle_ 's efforts in rescuing her from the clutches of the Frogs  
  
The man with Captain Chase was tanned so dark that it was only his blond hair that gave him away as being a white man. Dirty-blond hair, and green eyes that took in everything, missing no detail however small, even though their owner seemed a little overwhelmed by events. He was wearing the long-tailed red coat and crimson sash of an Army officer, with a curved sabre that seemed totally out of place hanging from the sword-belt of a man like that. He was whip-cord thin, a bundle of pent-up nervous energy. He was a fighter, though, if the scar on his thin, dark face was anything to go by.  
  
Captain Chase guided the stranger into the depths of the Great Cabin, leaving Gilchrist to release his breath in a long slow sigh of relief. Now where had the Captain run into _him_ , and why so friendly with someone who looked, under the officer's uniform he wore, like a ragamuffin off the streets of Calcutta?  
  
It seemed he was not to find out, at least not yet. Two sailors brought a sea-chest aft, indicating that the Captain had offered the Army officer the use of his own bed-place while aboard, which only increased the mystery.  
  
The mystery was not solved that day, nor the next, though small overheard bits and pieces of information only heightened the Marines' speculation about the stray Army officer. “Someone says as how he ain't welcome in his regiment,” Maddox said, brushing black-ball onto his bayonet scabbard with vim. “On account of 'em bein' Scotch, see.”  
  
“Scots,” said a voice from the next table.  
  
“Whatever, Mackay, whatever. As thick as thieves, all of you.”  
  
There was a grim chuckle from the Scotsman and relative silence descended as Sergeant Armstrong stalked through from the petty officers' screened-off mess, heading for the companionway to check on the sentries.  
  
The chatter had barely begun again when Major Llewellyn came through from the direction of the wardroom. He was holding his hat in his hand, a sign that he wasn't invading the men's privacy deliberately and they should carry on as though he wasn't there. He paused, looking around the dim, crowded deck, searching for one face in particular. When he saw who he was looking for, he threaded his way between the slung tables and half-cleaned kit. The Marine he had singled out, the drummer, gawped up at him for a moment before scrambling to his feet, still holding a shoe and shoe-brush. Llewellyn pretended not to notice the lad's state of disarray, or the blush that coloured his face.  
  
“Oxley, you've done stewarding duties before, haven't you?” he said, the Welsh lilt quiet.  
  
Oxley bit his lip, the blush deepening. “Y... yes sir...?”  
  
“The Captain is inviting some of the wardroom officers to dinner with him and his guests. You will wait table for Mister Sharpe.”  
  
The youngster sagged slightly. That was not what he'd wanted to hear. Waiting table was nerve-racking enough without it being in the Captain's cabin, with who knew what other gentry being present. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, dropping back onto the bench with a thud as the Marine officer headed up the companionway to take the air on the quarterdeck.  
  
“Cheer up, lad, could be worse,” Reece said, grinning. Most of the older men were grinning, it seemed.  
  
Oxley was still red, and swiped half-heartedly at his shoe. “And jus' how could it be any worse?” he muttered without looking up.  
  
“Could be the Admiral who's comin' to dinner!” That was Brewer, who was grinning like an idiot.  
  
Oxley did look up at that. “Not stuck out here in the Indian Ocean, God knows how far from the Fleet,” he said. “Waddaya take me for, stupid?”  
  
“Ah, you ain't that, Tom lad,” Gilchrist said. “Ignore him. He's just jealous that it ain't him that got picked, that's what.”  
  
“Am not!” Brewer replied indignantly.  
  
“Keep it down, you lot. Don't want Sar'nt Armstrong gettin' all worked up and givin' everyone extra duties, do you? 'Cause he will, he comes back up here and finds you squabblin' like a pack of kids.” The speaker, Nathan Darker, stretched before returning to whitening his crossbelt, which he did as placidly as he did everything else.  
  
Oxley returned to blacking his shoes, feeling apprehensive about that evening. He'd heard about the Army officer from the Marines who'd done sentry on the cabin door since he'd come aboard, and what they'd said hadn't really done much to calm the nervousness that now threatened to make his hands shake if he wasn't careful.  
  
It was only half a bell later that there was a clatter of shod feet on the companionway. There was a muttered curse from someone obviously unused to the steep ladders, and Oxley looked up to see Mackay had scrambled to his feet to steady a man who the drummer took to be the captain's particular friend. He was wearing a red coat, but was hatless, and was holding onto the rail to regain his breath. Mister Collier was with him and the midshipman was nearly dancing from foot to foot, with anxiety written all over his face.  
  
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked, his young treble sounding anxious.  
  
“Aye, I'll live,” was the gruff reply.  
  
Mister Collier looked relieved, and immediately indicated the area around them. “This is where the Marines live, sir,” he piped, as though the visitor couldn't see that for himself. The nearest Marines blinked and began getting to their feet in acknowledgement, abandoning various items of kit on the mess-tables as they did so, only to be waved down by the eager midshipman who began rattling off various pieces of information about the _Pucelle_ as he led the officer for'rard.  
  
The Marines relaxed, looking at each other.  
  
“So... that's the Captain's friend, then,” one of them said, breaking the silence. “Wouldn't like to meet him on a dark night, that's for sure.”  
  
There was a general, though quiet, murmur of agreement at that, and Oxley poked at the deck planking with a bare toe. Why the hell did it have to be him? He didn't care that beside being the other drummer, Appleby also did duty as Lieutenant Price's steward. Reece was the major's steward and had come with him from their previous ship. Oxley had no idea how either of them managed to put up with doing the stewarding thing, though for Reece, it was his primary role outside of actually being a Marine and doing what the other Marines did. Appleby somehow had to fit it in with his duties as _Pucelle_ 's other drummer.  
  
Oxley finally had to stop polishing his shoes; there was only so much work he could do to them at once, and his jacket needed brushing if he was to stand any chance of not getting hauled over the coals by Major Llewellyn after the meal.  
  
He was still nervous as he made his way aft to the Captain's cabin to where the other servants were waiting. Most of them were ship's boys who acted as servants for the officers, though the Captain's steward was there too, and the loblolly boy who also did duty as the surgeon's servant.  
  
It seemed as though his charge was just as nervous, though he tried not to show it. Major Llewellyn soon put him at ease, and then Captain Chase was calling everyone to sit down. It didn't help Oxley's nerves much that Ensign Sharpe was seated between Doctor Pickering and Major Llewellyn, but at least he wouldn't get glared at by the Marine officer from across the table if he screwed up. Although there was the potential that he'd get glared at by the Captain, instead, which was rather more intimidating. He couldn't help grinning at the Ensign as he took his place; the startled look the man gave him seemed to indicate that he wasn't used to being waited on.  
  
He tuned the conversation out; it was pretty boring stuff after all. The lady at the Captain's right hand was very pretty; Oxley remembered her from when she and her husband, Lord Hale, had sailed out to India aboard _Pucelle_ earlier in the year. She'd been pretty haughty back then, and Oxley had no reason to think that she was any more friendly now. It was unlucky to have women aboard, even pretty ones like Lady Hale... A soft cough from Major Llewellyn jerked his attention down to the Army officer sitting in front of him and he hastily snagged a bottle of wine to refill the Ensign's glass.  
  
The meal passed without any major incidents, thankfully, and Oxley and the others were dismissed to return to their own duties. The other Marines started asking questions almost as soon as he got back to mess-deck and he sighed, turning to head up to the foc'sle for a bit of peace and quiet.  
  
It was not to be. Major Lewellyn was standing by the taffrail with Ensign Sharpe. Captain Chase had obviously just been talking with the two officers because he turned away, crossing toward the wheel to check the compass bearing.  
  
“Private Oxley!”  
  
He gulped and turned to see that Major Llewellyn was coming for'rard along the gangway, followed by Ensign Sharpe. He saluted, and waited to see what they wanted, feeling nervous.  
  
“I really don't need...” Mister Sharpe was saying, only for his objection to be waved aside.  
  
“Nonsense, we all have a servant while we're aboard. About the only tolerable thing to being at sea, that. Oxley here might be young, but he's capable, and he'll be able to answer your questions. You should stop by and visit the men; he'll show you the way.”  
  
“But I...”  
  
“They'll be pleased to see you – there are all sorts of rumours going around down there about how you know the Captain. You ought to set them straight.”  
  
The Ensign scowled and Oxley swallowed. Major Llewellyn didn't seem to notice, though, and merely grinned at them both. “Well, that's settled, then. I'll leave you two to get on with it. Evening, Mister Sharpe.”  
  
“Evenin', sir,” Mister Sharpe growled. Oxley just bit his lip and saluted again.  
  
The two studied each other for a moment. Sharpe saw a young lad of about sixteen, with blond hair tied back more or less neatly in a queue. He was wearing white trousers with black gaiters buttoned over them and, unusually to Sharpe's mind, a checked shirt. He looked somewhat nervous; in fact, he'd started chewing his lower lip while Sharpe studied him. His already sunburned face reddened even more under Sharpe's scrutiny.  
  
“Waddaya want to know then, sir?” he asked, shrugging, looking as though he'd like to be almost anywhere else.  
  
Sharpe fumbled for something to say. “Your name's Oxley, right?”  
  
The lad just nodded.  
  
“Were you the one who were waitin' on me earlier?”  
  
The blush deepened and there was another nod. The lad seemed to think better of it and looked up. “Yes. Did I... Did I get summat wrong, sir?”  
  
“What? Oh, no, I just... We ain't used to that, in the Army, that's all.”  
  
“Not...?” He blinked up at Sharpe, realised he'd probably overstepped the mark and shut up abruptly.  
  
“The whole havin' folks waitin' on other folks like that...” Sharpe thought back to the conversation that some of the others had had, about the problems of finding reliable servants, and wondered what the young lad had made of it.  
  
Oxley shrugged. “We gots enough folks aboard, sir. 'S only p'lite for everyone to have someone wait on 'em. Happens alla time in the wardroom.”  
  
The officer looked at him, blankly, and the drummer couldn't help looking surprised. “The wardroom, sir. Where the officers live. Well, the officers what's not the Captain, in course. He gets his own cabin he does. Even in the smallest vessels.”  
  
“Vessel? Not ship?” Sharpe asked, noting the lad's distinction.  
  
“Yessir. I... I ain't a sailor, sir, but a ship has to have three masts an' a bowsprit an' carry square sails on all three masts. I think.” He looked a little uncomfortable at just talking to the officer like this. “Smaller vessels don't have three masts, sir, see. Though they still get called ships, when talkin' about 'em in gen'ral, like.”  
  
It didn't make any sense to Sharpe, and he shrugged. The young Marine frowned at him, and hastily wiped his expression from his face as Sharpe looked at him. Some things didn't change, no matter whether you were Army or Navy, or, apparently, Marines.  
  
“How long have you been a Marine?” Sharpe asked, trying to think of something to say.  
  
“The Corps, sir? Um. Four years, sir. Joined a year before the Peace.”  
  
Peace? What peace? Sharp tried not to look confused.  
  
“The Peace with France, sir, in the year Two. Only lasted... a bit over a year, sir. Me first ship was paid off, an' I was lucky not to get discharged, sir. Reckon I was that new, an' that young that they didn't see any need for it, sir. Then I joined _Pucelle_ , sir, right after the Peace. Bin in her two years, near 'nough, sir.”  
  
Two years? The lad didnt't look old enough – he could only be about sixteen, and with four years' service, he could only have been about twelve when he'd enlisted.  
  
Sharpe wasn't quite sure how to phrase his next request. It would sound odd however he said it. “Captain Chase asked if I'd be willin' to... fight with you Marines, when we come up with the French.” Oxley blinked up at him, frowning a little. “I... I'd like to meet the rest of you, if I can,” Sharpe finished.  
  
There was a pause before Oxley grasped his meaning. “Oh. O' course, sir. Our mess is this way, sir.”  
  
He indicated the companionway down, and Sharpe hesitated, then turned to go down the steep steps backwards, not quite trusting himself to keep his footing with the _Pucelle_ 's motion.


	2. Hide and Seek

Sharpe followed the young lad down the ladder, careful of his footing. Oxley clattered down the steps, seemingly unaware of the steepness that made the companionways more like ladders than stairs had any right to be. He paused at the bottom, looking up at the Ensign with something like concern. "You all right there, sir?" he asked. "I ain't goin' too fast for you, am I?"  
  
Sharpe ducked under the low lintel of the deck below, and found he had to keep his head bent, so as not to go knocking himself out on a beam. "So which deck are we on now?" he asked, a little confused. He hadn't realised it would be so easy to lose his bearings.  
  
"This's the upper gundeck, sir," the young Marine said, and waved at the fat black guns ranged down the sides of the ship. "It's the first continuous deck o' guns, sir."  
  
Shrpe frowned, confused. "But there were guns on the deck above us," he pointed out, only for the Marine lad to shake his head.   
  
"No, sir. Well, sorta, sir. See, the quarterdeck an' foc'sle have carronades – we call 'em smashers, sir. But the gangways that link the quarterdeck an' foc'sle don't have guns at all, not bein' wide enough to have guns _and_ let folks walk along the deck. An' the boats is stored on the boat-booms, 'tween the two gangways, see, sir." He pointed up and Sharpe could see the dark silhouettes of the boats through the grating over their heads. "'S why folks don't berth on this deck, as well, that, sir. 'S too open, see," Oxley added, before indicating aft, to where a lantern could be seen swaying, the pool of orange light doing very little to illuminate the darkness, though it lit the red coat of a Marine standing sentry, and gleamed softly off his brass crossbelt plate.  
  
"That's the wardroom back there, sir," Oxley said, as though Sharpe hadn't just had a tour of the whole ship given by a very eager Mister Midshipman Collier. "This's what's called the half-deck, this, sir," he added, indicating the covered-over space as far forward as the gratings. "Us M'rines berth down a deck on the lower gundeck, sir. Well, 'cept for Major Llewellyn an' Lieutenant Price."  
  
"You don't have a Captain?" Sharpe asked, puzzled.  
  
Oxley blinked up at him, confused for a moment, and then his young face cleared in sudden understanding. "Oh. It _is_ prop'ly Captain Llewellyn, sir, only a ship can't have more'n one captain aboard – an' that's Captain Chase, as is Captain of _Pucelle_ , see. So M'rine captains get called Major, y'see, sir." It didn't really explain anything, but Sharpe nodded.  
  
"C'mon, down here's our messdeck, y'see, sir," he said, swinging around a stout post to another ladder, just as steep as the first.  
  
Again, Sharpe turned to go down backwards; he couldn't understand how sailors – and apparently Marines – could go down such steep steps forwards without losing their footing, or knocking their heads on the stout wooden lintels.  
  
"Here we are, sir," Oxley said, grinning, as Sharpe's feet touched the solid wooden planking of the deck and he turned around to see where he was.   
  
"The middies berth aft of us, in the gunroom, there, sir," Oxley said, indicating to one end of the deck. Sharpe nodded, taking in the tables slung between the menacing black guns that were bigger down here than the ones on the deck above them. There were men sitting at the tables who paused in whatever they were doing to look at them curiously.   
  
Most of them were in shirtsleeves, the checked or striped shirts looking strange to a man used to soldiers wearing plain white shirts. The various activities were familiar, however, ranging from polishing shoes or other equipment, to brushing jackets or hats to pipeclaying crossbelts. A couple of men were having their queues retied, an unlit candle lying nearby to help with taming the short hairs that simply refused to stay put otherwise.  
  
There were a few frowns at first and then the closest man noticed the sash wound around Sharpe's waist, and scrambled to his feet, which was the cue for the others to begin to stand as well. Oxley bit his lip before looking up at him, a slightly worried expression on his face. "Um, sir... if you ain't on duty, or wantin' to make it a 'ficial visit, d'you mind takin' your hat off, sir, please?"  
  
Hat? What did his hat have to do with anything, Sharpe wondered, obediently pulling the thing off his head and indicating that the men could sit down. He felt out of place here, neither fish nor fowl, and wasn't sure if that was because he was a soldier among Marines, or because he was an officer – and one promoted from the ranks, at that.  
  
Oxley glanced up at him again, and finding that he wasn't going to explain himself, dared to open his mouth and offer his own explanation, somewhat diffidently as though nervous at the officer's presence. The gathered Marines took his presence in their stride, laying aside their various tasks to talk.  
  
It seemed that it was not unusual for officers to be promoted from the ranks in the Navy – if Sharpe understood their references to 'coming aft by the hawsehole' correctly – and Captain Chase himself had used that term when he'd first met Sharpe. But for them to see an officer in a red coat who'd been promoted from the ranks was as much a novelty for the Marines as it was for any soldier Sharpe had met, and they seemed to regard him with quite a proprietorial air when they found that the Captain himself had asked if Sharpe would consider becoming an honorary Marine for the duration of the voyage.  
  
"He ain't a M'rine, see, the Captain," Hawkins said. "Though, reelly, he's nearly as good as us, sir. Oughter be in a red coat, him, but then, 'e wouldn't be the Capting if he _was_."  
  
Gilchrist grinned, looking at the facings on Sharpe's threadbare officer's coat. "See, we usedta have white facin's our own selves till a coupla years ago, sir."   
  
"Three," interjected another Marine, swivelling around on his sea-chest to join in the conversation.  
  
"Three, then, Reece, you... you...!" Gilchrist said, rolling his eyes and making the other Marines laugh. He looked back up at Sharpe. "So, reelly, you's nearly by way o' bein' a proper Marine already, sir. Jus' need to get you in the blue facin's we's got." He held his arm up to show his own dark-blue cuff, with its polished pewter buttons.  
  
"What you goin' 'ome for any'ow, sir?" Brewer asked, curious.  
  
A couple of Marines had moved up and Sharpe found himself sitting on a sea-chest, quite unselfconsciously, a little overcome by the rough hospitality he was being offered. "I'm changin' regiments, see, and the one I'm joinin' is back home in England."  
  
The camaraderie was there and he didn't feel pushed out because of his rank, or that the Marines were being in any way over-familiar with him. It was quite a strange feeling, and he suddenly though that if the transfer to the Rifles - with their strange ways and their green jackets – didn't work, then he might somehow be able to exchange again, to the Marines. Their ways were strange too, but they seemed to be a lot more accepting of people who were different. Maybe that had to do with the nature of the crew as a whole, though? One of the oarsmen of the Captain's barge was a black man, after all, and he wasn't the only black man aboard. Or, indeed, the only foreign national aboard.  
  
Over the next few weeks, Sharpe would have spent most of his time with the Marines, if it wasn't for Lady Grace, and for Captain Chase's hospitality in having him to dinner in the Great Cabin most evenings. It seemed almost natural for Oxley to tap on the outer door of the Captain's bed-place one day, with a message from Major Llewellyn.   
  
The drummer sent a nervous glance towards the door to the Great Cabin before delivering his message. "Um, sorry for interruptin', sir, but would you like to come down an' help with somethin', please?"  
  
"With what?" Sharpe asked, reaching for his coat to pull it on.  
  
"Sorry, sir, I daren't say up 'ere," Oxley said, sending another nervous glance at the connecting door behind Sharpe, as if expecting Chase to burst through it at any moment and sentence him to twelve lashes at the grating. Whatever was wrong, obviously Captain Chase could not be allowed to hear about it.  
  
The ship's mood had changed from an easy-going friendliness to a wary, guarded feeling. Petty officers were more often found with their starters in hand than tucked into their belts. They had spotted a sail that the Captain was sure was the ship he was after, but it had slipped away from them, souring his temper – and thus the temper of everyone in the ship.   
  
"I'll come, then, but you'll have to tell me on t'way down," Sharpe said, and Oxley nodded, looking up at him with a relieved expression.  
  
Sharpe was a little puzzled when Oxley led him past the wardroom, down past the lower gundeck and the Marines' mess-tables and down another ladder to somewhere he vaguely recollected as being called the orlop, or some such outlandish name.  
  
"Major Llewellyn's lost somethin' what oughta be in the magazine, an' I thought as you might like to help look for it." Oxley looked for a moment as though he expected to receive a clip round the ear. "Wouldn't 'ave asked if I didn't think you was bored, like, sir."  
  
"Ah, hello, Sharpe," Llewellyn said, as they clattered down the ladder. He seemed to be putting an effort into appearing his usual jovial cheerful self, but the Marines behind him looked nervous and apprehensive in the light of the lanthorn held by Sergeant Fairwood.  
  
"Took aboard a crate of grenades before we sailed," Llewellyn explained to Sharpe. "And the dratted things have vanished. Quite disappeared. Ought to be in the forward magazine, but they ain't – and Lieutenant Peel and my two sergeants nearly pulled it to shreds looking for 'em."  
  
"Grenades?" Sharpe wanted to know, pausing in straightening his sash.  
  
"They're French ones," he explained, "so I've no idea what's in them. Powder, of course, and some kind of fulminate. They're made of glass. You light it, you throw it and you pray that it kills someone. Devilish things, they are, quite devilish." He shrugged. "And quite lost."  
  
"It's a bad day for everyone, sir," Sharpe pointed out. "It's just another thing that's gone wrong today."  
  
Llewellyn shook his head. "Oh, it's far worse than that, Sharpe. Some fool might have put them in the hold." He indicated where a couple of Marines were removing the grating from the narrow ladder down to the thick inky blackness of the lowest level of the ship. "We bought them from _Viper_ when she was being refitted. They took them in action off Antigua and their Captain didn't want them. Reckoned they were too dangerous. If Chase finds them in the hold he'll crucify me and I don't blame him. Their proper place is in a magazine."  
  
"Or a Frenchy, sir?" Oxley piped up.  
  
Llewellyn nodded. "Indeed. Though what you're doing down here, I don't know."  
  
The drummer shuffled his feet. "Sorry, sir. Jus' wanted to help, sir."  
  
Llewellyn sighed and turned to Sergeant Armstrong. "Right, then. Let's be getting on with it. We'll go over this with a fine-tooth comb until we find 'em."  
  
Sharpe nearly expected Oxley to find them, but it was Sergeant Fairwood who discovered them, after a search lasting three hours, in a box that had been ignored because it had 'Biscuit' stencilled on the lid.  
  
"God knows what's in the magazines, then," the Marine officer said, looking down at the box. "They're probably full of salt beef. That bloody man Cowper!"  
  
"Cowper's the pusser, sir," Oxley whispered to Sharpe, fascinated by the harmless-looking dark glass globes packed into the box.  
  
"He probably hid them, thinking he could sell them to some benighted savage. Bloody man!" He bent to pick one of the grenades from the box and handed it to Sharpe, who was aware of Oxley's burning curiosity and shifted a little so the drummer could see.  
  
The Marine officer continued with his explanation."Packed with scrap metal, see? That thing could go off like case shot!"  
  
Oxley sucked in a breath as Sharpe held the deadly glass ball to the light of a lanthorn held by Brewer. The dark glass was filled with scraps and shards of metal.  
  
"You light the fuse, throw the damn thing and I suppose the glass shatters when it falls. The lit fuse communicates with the powder and that's the end of a Frenchman." He took the grenade back. "I wonder if Captain Chase would let us try one. If we had men standing by with buckets of water?"  
  
"Make a dirty mark on his nice clean deck?" Sharpe said, though the idea was a tempting one.  
  
"I suppose he won't. Still, if it comes to a battle, I'll give some to the boys up the masts and they can hurl them onto the enemy decks. They have to be good for something."  
  
The suggestion made the listening Marines grin and nudge each other.  
  
"Chuck 'em overboard," Sharpe said, and Oxley frowned at him. The spoilsport!  
  
"Dear me, no! I don't want to hurt the fishes, Sharpe!"  
  
Oxley had to disguise a laugh as a cough, which brought on a real coughing fit, and his eyes were streaming as he scrambled up the ladder to return to his mess for a well-earned dinner.


	3. View Halloo!

It was everything that life at sea should be. The _Pucelle_ was sailing westwards to try to avoid the doldrums, the feared latitudes with fluky winds where you could be becalmed for weeks. The weather was always bright and sunny this far south and it was good to be alive. The evenings were spent skylarking on the foc'sle, with singing and dancing and generally having fun.  
  
The Marines were spending today's forenoon watch in small-arms drill, under the supervision of Major Llewellyn, Lieutenant Peel and Ensign Sharpe – although the marines had fallen into the habit of addressing and referring to the latter as 'Lieutenant Sharpe'.  
  
He had asked Oxley about it one cool evening, watching Her Ladyship take the air on the poop-deck. The lad, newly relieved as duty drummer, had paused in tapping some rhythm on the wooden shell of his drum and looked up at the tall officer. "It's 'cause we don't have Ensigns in the M'rines, sir," the drummer had said. "Got two diff'rent levels of Lieutenant, but no Ensigns, sir." He'd shrugged and gone back to tapping, a rhythm Sharpe recognised as 'Hearts of Oak' which the _Pucelle_ used for Quarters, the signal for preparing to meet the enemy.  
  
Sharpe had shaken his head in disbelief and gone back to watching Lady Grace. It seemed that _Pucelle_ 's Marines really had adopted him as one of them, without even thinking about it.  
  
The Marines had finished target shooting, using as targets the empty wine bottles thoughtfully provided by the wardroom, and had now moved onto speed-firing. They had grinned at the unusual order to remove their stocks before Mister Sharpe had asked if he might be allowed to borrow a musket and join in. The smiles had turned to looks of disbelief as Major Llewellyn timed him at five shots in the minute, although more than one Marine had noticed an important detail: He had very cunningly loaded the musket before calling for the minute to begin.  
  
"Ah, he's a sneaky bugger all right," Brewer said admiringly, elbowing Hawkins in the ribs. Hawkins was leaning on his own musket, watching closely and Brewer merely got a grunt in reply. Oxley was sitting on the main bitts, watching, idly tapping away with his drumsticks.  
  
"All right, lads. Make sure you've got enough cartridges. We're going to hold a little competition. Who can fire the most rounds off in three minutes?"  
  
Oxley looked up at this announcement, and tried to remember the rudimentary ciphering his father had taught him when he was more sober than usual once, coming to the doubtful conclusion that if a man could fire three shots in dead on a minute, he'd manage nine in three minutes, but if he could somehow save himself five seconds a minute, he could get up to ten shots over three minutes. It didn't sound right, and he was sure that it was possible to fire faster than that, but he was too young to be allowed to handle a musket even in training, so he didn't know for sure, apart from what he'd heard the men saying.  
  
The firing was fast and furious, though as the officers could only time three men – Mister Sharpe had been allowed to borrow Captain Chase's watch, which impressed everyone – the volleys sounded much thinner than usual. And of course there was no firing from the big guns, which had been exercised earlier.  
  
By the end of the morning's drill, the Marines were grinning at each other with powder-blackened faces, and the officers looked pretty happy too. Major Llewellyn clapped Sharpe on the shoulder. "Though, Sharpe, you'll have to remember than during battle, the boys don't load standing up. No sense in risking having their heads knocked off by a Frog cannonball because they can't use the cover of the bulwarks when loading, after all."  
  
Sharpe looked a little taken aback at the idea of letting the men kneel down to load, and his expression made the senior Marine officer grin. "There isn't anywhere for 'em to run. Don't risk your men's lives needlessly, Sharpe. They won't thank you for it in the end. Though they'll do anything for you if they know you'll do your best for them, see."  
  
The soldier nodded. It wasn't something he'd really thought about, though when he did, he realised that it made sense. It was one of the things he'd learned at Assaye... He'd been willing to follow General Wellesley across the river, although he hadn't been quite able to figure out _why_. And Llewellyn had just put his finger on it: Wellesley hadn't been willing to risk his men's lives needlessly. He'd done his damnedest to make it possible for them to win his battle for him with the fewest casualties – and that wasn't the first time.  
  
Maybe... He didn't think he could leave the army, not while General Wellesley was still leading it. Though... would he ever get the chance to serve under Sir Arthur again? The General was still in India and he was on his way home to England, and who knew what might happen? There was always the danger that peace could be declared between England and France before he could do anything more – although he'd heard rumours that there had been a period of peace in the year two. And here they were, still at war – or at least, Captain Chase didn't seem to think there was any danger of peace, the way he was following _Revenant_.  
  
The chase continued, with gun drills and musket drills conducted every day. Sometimes Major Llewellyn varied the drills, making the Marines practise with boarding pikes, pistols, even cutlasses. Sharpe wasn't surprised to see that most of the Marines preferred to stick with their muskets. He wouldn't want to have to face any of them down in combat – they knew what they were doing when they had bayonets fitted, and more than one of them looked as though he would have no hesitation in using the heavy brass-bound butt if necessary. The Major seemed to prefer the boarding axes, though – vicious axes with a sharp blade like a wood-axe on one side of the haft and a spike on the other.  
  
"Me, I'm stickin' with me musket," Gilchrist said, looking up from polishing the brass of his bayonet scabbard. "Leave them axes to the sailors – if you'd ever seen a tar with a pair of 'em, usin' the spikes to haul hisself up the side of a ship, you'd agree."  
  
"Not much use once you's on the deck, though," Reece said.  
  
Gilchrist nodded. "Why d'you think I'm stickin' with me musket?" There were chuckles from the other Marines.  
  
"Sensible of you – to let the bluejackets go first," Darker said. "Though ain't that what we's s'posed to do?"  
  
"First over's got the biggest chance o' getting killed, though, you gotta admit that," Hawkins put in. "Don't blame 'im for wanting the bluejackets to be first to tackle the enemy."  
  
"You callin' me shy?" Gilchrist said, lowering the rag and looking up.  
  
"Not as you might say. Only, you gotta admit, that's what it sounded like..." Hawkins replied, peaceably.  
  
"I ain't shy." Gilchrist dipped the damp rag back into the tin of brickdust, a frown on his face. That was not what he'd meant at all.  
  
The other Marines let the subject drop. They had too much work to do to prepare for Sunday and Divisions. Thankfully, Captain Chase wasn't the bluelight sort of captain. He'd be more likely to read the Articles of War before declaring a make and mend.  
  
Oxley had had to explain a make and mend to Mister Sharpe, who seemed almost fascinated by life aboard a Naval ship, though he never explained his fascination to the drummer. When the Ensign wasn't with the Marines, he was in the Captain's cabin, and if he wasn't there either, Oxley felt almost sure that he was entertaining Her Ladyship – the _Pucelle_ was carrying Lord William Hale, his wife and his secretary back to England, for reasons that were beyond the drummer. And it seemed that Mister Sharpe was quean-struck on the lady – though neither Oxley nor any of the other Marines could blame him. She was devilishly good-looking, although she didn't even so much as acknowledge the lobsterbacks.  
  
They crossed the Line again, heading northwards. Everyone aboard had crossed it before in the opposite direction – which was only natural, of course, what with _Pucelle_ 's station being in Indian waters, though nobody paid that any mind. The Captain ordered a double grog ration for everyone, and hands to dance and skylark, which made Mister Sharpe gape as the topmen and some of the young ship's boys went swarming up into the rigging. Oxley grinned – the officer was standing by the fiferail at the time and the drummer was off-duty. He dived below to scramble out of his red coat before heading topside again.  
  
He dared to give the Ensign a cheeky wave before hauling himself into the rigging in turn, heading for the maintop, the lowest and biggest of the two platforms of the mainmast, where a squad of Marines would be in battle, firing down onto the decks of the enemy ship.  
  
Sharpe saw the drummer and opened his mouth to call him back down, but was forestalled by Llewellyn. "Let him, Sharpe. He's a natural aloft. He'll be a sharpshooter one day, that one." The two redcoat officers watched as Oxley ignored the narrowing of the shrouds that led to the lubber's hole, instead taking the backwards-hanging sailor's way of the futtock shrouds. Sharpe remembered the terror of feeling his feet slipping as he'd gone that way himself, but the drummer had no such incident and kept climbing, swinging himself into the top like a sailor.  
  
"He's still young enough to play tag with the ship's boys," Llewellyn said. "There's no need to curb his spirits, not on a day like this. He'll settle down soon enough, after all, to spend the rest of his life doing drill and cleaning kit. Let him have a bit of fun while he can."  
  
All this time the _Revenant_ remained in view, although both ships were becalmed now, and the French ship just seemed to be teasing them. It was only a few days later when the French ship began holding gun drills, something that make Oxley look scornful.  
  
At Sharpe's asking why, Oxley shrugged. "He ain't goin' to catch a wind doin' that, sir. Firin' the guns deadens the wind, after all, sir. We might even get a bit o' a breeze to get us up to 'im while he's doin' of that." He turned as the bell for'rard sounded four double-strokes, eight bells, and turned back to look at Sharpe nervously.  
  
"Carry on," Sharpe said, allowing the lad to head aft to relieve Appleby as duty drummer. He headed aft himself, climbing the short ladder to the quarterdeck, where Lieutenant Haskell was watching the French ship through his telescope, trying to time the shots.  
  
Oxley tuned the officers' conversation out, wishing that he was on the gangway with a chance of seeing over the bulwark, rather than on the half-deck, with no chance of seeing anything. The Captain ordered the boats lowered in an attempt to tow _Pucelle_ closer, although Oxley couldn't see that they'd have any luck with it, not with the size of the third-rate and the weight of her and her stores, guns and everything else.  
  
They were at a stand-off, it seemed. What Mister Peel described as an ' _impasse_ ', whatever that meant. As they tried to tow _Pucelle_ closer, so the French Captain got his boats in the water to tow the _Revenant_ away. It was a few days later, and Oxley was again the duty drummer when the conversation on the quarterdeck made him perk up a little. The gunner had come aft to report that he thought the Froggie might be in range of the bow-chasers, the guns trained furthest forward.  
  
The Captain went to look, and Oxley trailed after him, hoping that he was going to be needed.  
  
"We'll try with chain after the first shot," the Captain said decisively.  
  
The gunner sucked his teeth. "Long range for chain, sir," he said, and the Captain shrugged.  
  
"We'll get closer, then." He looked through his telescope at the distant ship. "We'll get closer."  
  
They were closer now than they had been for weeks – almost within range – and Oxley had to wipe his palms on his trousers.  
  
"Sir!"  
  
The cry from aloft made Captain Chase look towards the distant French ship again. "They're towing her head around," he said. "Going to give us a broadside, I shouldn't wonder." He glanced towards Oxley. "Drummer!"  
  
Oxley stepped smartly forward, hands itching to draw his drumsticks from where they were stowed in his crossbelt. "Sir?"  
  
"Beat to Quarters!"  
  
"Aye, aye, sir!" he replied, already pulling his sticks free and preparing to beat the age-old call to arms.  
  
His shoulders slumped as the Captain's arm went up. "Belay that!"  
  
Dammit. What was going on up there?  
  
"Damn and blast his French eyes!" the Captain said, which outburst made Oxley blink. "The damn Frog's got a wind."  
  
The stroke of bad luck made the Marines morose.  
  
"Not that they're firebreathers, Sharpe," Major Llewellyn was at pains to point out, "but a fight'll do 'em good. And there's always the chance of prize money, if we can take her."  
  
"Prize money?" Technically speaking, the Army could benefit from prize money as well, but the prizes from a land battle were nearly worthless compared to the value of a ship – and would have to be divided up among a far greater number of officers and men.  
  
"Aye. Prize money." The Major spoke the words with relish. "Enough to set even young Oxley up in some comfort, I shouldn't wonder. It's all divided up, of course. Two eighths to the Captain, - three, if he's in an independent command, or directly under Admiralty orders. An eighth to the wardroom officers, and that includes you. An eighth to the warrant officers, an eighth to the middies and two eighths for the rest of the crew. That'll set you up for a while, I shouldn't wonder!"  
  
Sharpe's eyes widened, though he kept quiet about the fortune in jewels sewn into the seams of his coat. There was no need to tempt Fate, after all – and he had come close to losing those gems on more than one occasion.


	4. Interlude: Joking Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was my original idea for the fic, really – it was while reading this in the novel that I got the idea for the overall fic, and I had intended to include it in the fic itself. I have no idea why I didn't; possibly I got caught up in the wider story and forgot that this scene existed in the novel. It's in Chapter 6, and falls in Part 3 of Sharpe's Marines

Major Llewellyn, Ensign Sharpe, Sergeant Fairwood and Oxley were in the foretop after more musket practise – Major Llewellyn held that every day, drilling different squads of the men to keep them all sharp. "No point in leaving the magazines and storerooms unguarded – Captain Chase would have my head," he said to Sharpe, before pointing out, "It's not the same men on duty all the time, so this way they all get a chance to do everything – keeps 'em fresh, see. Variety is the spice of life, as they say."

Sharpe nodded, looking with interest at the short, fat weapon that Sergeant Fairwood had brought up to the foretop with him.

"Ah. That's a seven-barrelled volley gun, that. Made by Mister Nock, in London 'specially for the Navy," Llewellyn said. "Got a kick like a carthorse, that does – all the seven barrels fire from the same spark, see. Pistol balls, but even so. Kicks like a damn carthorse." He looked speculatively at the Ensign, who was whip-thin but whose wiry strength made up for his leanness. "Like a go with it, Mister Sharpe?"

Sergeant Fairwood paused in loading the fearsome thing to glance at the Army officer, who nodded.

"If you don't mind, sir."

Llewellyn grinned. "Course I don't mind, Sharpe – wouldn't offer if I minded, would I, now?" He glanced across at Oxley, who was perched by the lubber's hole, one leg dangling down it, and who scrambled hastily to his feet as he realised the officer was looking at him. "Oxley'll hold your musket. It'll give him something useful to do."

The drummer flushed pink at being caught out and came over to take the plain Sea Service musket that Sharpe handed him, retiring to his seat where he rested it across his legs while watching the ongoing proceedings with some curiosity.

"You want to take a proper good position with that volley-gun," Llewellyn continued, with relish.

"Careful, sir, that's loaded," Sergeant Fairwood said, giving the loaded weapon to the Army Ensign.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Sharpe replied, taking up a steady standing position, aiming the monster at the far horizon and pulling the butt firmly into his shoulder. He did not want to risk breaking his shoulder for a bit of fun, after all.

The sound, when he pulled the trigger, was like a cannon going off, and the clouds of white smoke more than made up for the fact that Sharpe thought he had broken his shoulder after all. He rubbed his shoulder ruefully as he handed the weapon back to the Sergeant. "You wouldn't miss that going off in a battle," he said, remembering stories of one man who had loaded round upon round in his musket because the first shot hadn't fired, at Boxtel.

""Fire one of those down onto a Frog deck, Sharpe, and we're making some proper misery," Llewellyn replied, with a predatory smile. "I think we've been up here long enough, though. Time to go."

Oxley scooted back from the lubber's hole before standing up. Major Llewellyn, Sergeant Fairwood and he himself all used the futtock shrouds, but Ensign Sharpe did not and used the lubber's hole. Nobody made anything of it; he might be in a red coat like the Marines but when it came down to it, there were just enough differences that it was obvious that he was not one of Pucelle's Marine detachment.

"He's a good sort, though," Lyle said over dinner that evening. "Ought to think about joinin' the Corps – ain't he goin' to join the Rifles or summat?"

"Experimental Corps o' Riflemen," Cray replied. "Well. That's what I've heard 'em called, anyhow."

"Last I heared, they've bin took into the line, as the 95th," Maddox put in. "Got theyselves the strangest colour jackets, though – they wear green, not red."

"You ain't serious! They never did!" Lyle said in disbelief.

Gilchrist laconically tapped his hardtack on the table. "Sure as eggs is eggs, he's right."

Tate sat back, a frown on his face. "Dunno why Mister Sharpe don't put in for a transfer to the Corps, rather'n go off an' wear some silly colour uniform coat."

"Ain't for us to ask questions like that. Be nice if he did join the Corps, though – could get used to havin' an officer like him." Cray's opinion seemed the common consensus and the Marines went back to discussing the Revenant and the various other small topics that usually made up their conversation.

It was a few days later that Major Llewellyn decided to vary things. It was probably Oxley's joining in with the sailors' skylarking that gave Llewellyn the idea in the first place, for he got all the off-duty Marines to report to Sergeant Armstrong to draw their muskets, but no ammunition, and had them all report to him on the poop-deck, the Marines' usual place for doing drill, where they would be out of the way of the sailors and the officers.

"Though not Her Ladyship," Mackay said, with an appreciative wink that made Darker roll his eyes. "Ain't gonna be up there when we are, is she? Stands to reason, that?"

"Shut it, you two. Here's your muskets." Sergeant Armstrong's brisk, no-nonsense Tyneside accent cut through the Marines' chatter easily. "Makes your marks – you know the drill by now, Darker. An' you're gonna be too busy to try lookin' for Her Ladyship, Mackay – an' if not, I can find you summat to keep your mind out of your trousers, got it?"

"Aye aye, Sar'nt," Mackay replied, hastily making his mark so he could escape the Sergeant's acid tongue.

Major Llewellyn divided the men up into smaller groups, each one under an NCO and sent them for'rard to the foc'sle. "NCOs lead," he said. "Take note of who's in your squad – the squad that gets all its men back here first can have a double tot at Up Spirits today." That pronouncement made the Marines grin at each other. "Right... Corporal Kinsley, Corporal Pollitt, your squads first."

The two junior NCOs glanced at each other before slinging their muskets and taking their place, using a deck-seam to make sure that they were truly level. The course mapped out was larboard to starboard, along the gangway to the quarter-deck - "And don't you _dare_ flatten Lieutenant Haskell, or you'll be for it!" - up to the poop, along the fife-rail to the port side, back down to the quarterdeck then back along the larboard gangway, up the larboard ratlines to the foretop and down the starboard ratlines. There would be a minute between the men from each team, but the team that got all their men back first would win. Which was why Ensign Sharpe was armed with Major Llewellyn's notebook and a pencil, while Lieutenant Swallow had a watch.

"Don't forget, when you're back here, you fall in behind the man before you in your team. Last man back puts his hand in the air as soon as he's fallen in," Llewellyn said in a mock growl that made the man grin.

"Right. On your marks... GO!"

The two corporals tore off, shoes skidding over the deck. The air was tense and the Marines managed to contain themselves for all of thirty seconds before the next two men were lined up, ready to go.

"The men have to stay spry, see," Llewellyn said, before letting the next two go.

"Hope you arranged this with Captain Chase, sir. He won't like a bunch of Marines racing round his deck if he ain't been told," Sharpe said, trying to hide a grin at the eager looks on the men's faces.

"Of course, of course!" Llewellyn replied.

By the time that the whole of the first two teams were off, the two Corporals were coming down the ratlines, breathing hard. They fell in, trying to stand straight despite the stitches that Sharpe was sure they had to be feeling.

"If the Frogs board us, we have to be able to get round the ship quickly," Llewellyn added, by way of explanation, turning to cheer the men on. "Don't dawdle, Hawkins! Hurry, man, hurry! You're a Marine, not a slug!"

"Damn... damn..." The man pressed a hand to his side, trying not to bend double under the major's eye. "Damn right, sir!"

Sharpe grinned. "Don't be too hard on him, sir. He was back first!"

Llewellyn clapped Sharpe on the shoulder. "True enough." He cupped his hands round his mouth. "Come on, there! We haven't got all day!"

Eventually, the foc's'le was full of cheerfully panting Marines who were trying not to lean on their muskets in order to stay upright.

"Who won it, Lieutenant?" Llewellyn asked as the last man skidded into place and threw up his hand.

"It was close, sir, very close. Corporal Pollitt's team made it in ten minutes and twenty-one seconds, sir, three seconds in front of Corporal Kinsley's squad."

There was cheering all round at that pronouncement, and Llewellyn turned to Corporal Kinsley. "My commiserations, Corporal. Once your men have got their breath back, please select the relief from your team and relieve the sentries."

"Aye, aye, sir," the corporal said, not seemingly cast down at all at having lost.

"Life must go on, after all," Llewellyn said. "You really ought to think about joining the Corps, Sharpe. You'd be a natural!"

"At everything but going aloft, sir," Sharpe pointed out. "Your men are like monkeys up there."

"Give it time, give it time. Anyway, we only allow volunteers to go aloft in battle. Do it often enough and you might get a head for it."

Sharpe only smiled. "I might... but I doubt it."

"There's time enough yet, Sharpe."

"Of course there is, sir."

And Pucelle sailed on.


	5. Enemy in Sight

It was strange, really, how Mister Sharpe had taken to what the Marines did – although he didn't go aloft with them. He'd already tried that, once, and nearly come a cropper by trying the futtock shrouds rather than sticking with the lubber's hole.  
  
It was also strange how Lord William Hale's servant, or secretary, or valet (the Marines weren't quite clear about the man's role) had turned up dead not all that long after the hunt for the grenades. Some said that he'd had both arms dislocated, although there was no sign of that when his body had been brought up on deck. Reece had merely shrugged. "They got the surgeon down to see 'im, didn't they? He could've sorted that out – supposin' there _was_ anythin' to sort out in the first place, o' course."  
  
"But what was 'e doin' down there in the first place?" Brewer asked, only to receive a shrug.  
  
"Prob'ly lookin' for summat from 'Is Lordship's baggage. Silly sod, goin' wanderin' around the 'old wivout a lanthorn. No wonder 'e slipped." Reece shrugged again and collected his accoutrements together. "I'm on duty, lads. See you later." He pulled his crossbelts on, took his musket and hat and headed up on deck.  
  
 _Pucelle_ had her wind now, although it was from the north-east, bringing rain squalls with it, which meant that the Marines had to parade to be issued their thicker woollen jackets and turn in the light-weight ones they had been issued for their India service, which caused some grumbling as the thicker jackets hadn't been worn for very long and weren't so comfortable.  
  
The wind backed a little until it was north-west by north, and then backed again until it was freshening from the south-west and suddenly their chase altered course to head for the Straits of Gibraltar, which made _Pucelle_ 's crew brighten a little, although _Revenant_ no longer had to struggle against the wind, which was a better point of sailing for _Pucelle_ , but could spread all sail and run before the wind.  
  
 _Pucelle_ began to make the turn, but no sooner had she let go the braces to haul the yards round on the new tack than _Revenant_ manoeuvred around onto her old course, heading north, forcing the _Pucelle_ to tighten her braces again without doing anything else. It puzzled everyone on deck for a moment, until the lookout hailed them.  
  
"Deck there! Sail ho! Two sail, four points on the starboard bow!"  
  
There was a pause, then: "Two frigates, sir! Flyin' British colours!"  
  
The atmosphere changed with the pronouncement and the Marines doing drill looked more alert, though their gazes were suddenly directed toward the rail behind the Corporal, rather than at the NCO himself.  
  
A string of flags broke out aft and the duty drummer perked up, obviously trying to listen in to what the officers on the quarterdeck were saying. His eyes widened and he kept glancing between the Marines and the distant frigates.  
  
The Corporal eventually gave the drill up as a lost cause – he was just as eager to know what was going on as the men were, apparently, and as the men headed for'ard up to the foc'sle, he turned to head aft.  
  
"Corp'ral... the fleet's out!" Oxley told him, in a stage whisper, as soon as the NCO was close enough. The Marines heading for'ard looked jubilant, some of them hugging each other in their glee. If the fleet was out, it was only because they'd been let out, and that meant that there would be a fight... and out here, in the Atlantic, _that_ meant that they'd be under the command of Admiral Nelson, who was just about the best commander anyone in the Navy could possibly serve under.  
  
"Don't forget it was Old Jarvie who got us into the blue facin's," Maddox said, touching the cuff of his red jacket, referring to the title Royal that the Marines had only been given two years previously.  
  
"True, true," Hawkins said peaceably. "Don't mean Nelson don't give a stuff about us, does it? After all, it was a M'rine that went acrost _San Josef_ and _San Nicholas_ with him, weren't it?*"  
  
"That's true 'nough an' all." Brewer leaned on his musket, staring across the blue water towards the distant frigates as though by staring he could make the rest of the fleet come into view. "Wish I'd bin there to see it, I do."  
  
There was a cheer from aft that made the Marines turn to see the officers. Of course they couldn't hear what was being said, and turned back to their own observations, watching the coloured bunting of _Euryalus_ ' signal flags fluttering in the fickle breeze. None of them could read the signal, of course, but it didn't matter – the officers knew what it said and whatever it was, it looked like good news.  
  
The bell rang out, four sharp double-strikes signalling the end of the watch, and a few minutes later Oxley came running for'ard to join them.  
  
"It's Adm'ral Nelson," he said, desperate to share the news with the other Marines. "Wants us to join his fleet, don't he?" He stood back, pleased with the effects of his words.  
  
"Knew it was," Brewer said, leaing on his musket, content with the news. "Reckon he'll do summat like that there takin' the _San Nicholas_ again?"  
  
Darker shrugged. "Don't know. He was only a Captain back then, wasn't he?"  
  
"Commodore," Gilchrist said. "Can't rightly 'member when he was promoted Adm'ral, though."  
  
"Whatever. Thing is, he ain't known for takin' things easy – allus wants to be in the action. It's goin' to be a proper good fight, it is, 'specially with him in command of the whole thing."  
  
The _Pucelle_ slowly turned. From the perspective of the Marines on the foc'sle, the ships they were watching slowly slipped sideways to the right as the ponderous third-rate turned north, aiming towards the still unseen British fleet that lay somewhere over the curve of the horizon.  
  
Oxley turned a little to see the officers heading aloft, up to the maintop. First the Captain, then Lieutenant Haskell and Lieutenant Peel, then Mister Sharpe, who squirmed through the lubber's hole. Oxley was almost sure that he saw Major Llewellyn give him a wink before following the other redcoat, although he took the quicker route of the futtock shrouds.  
  
"They'll see the fleet soon enough from up there," Darker said, and took his hat off to fish his pipe and baccy out. "Bein' higher up means you can see further. Dunno quite how it works, but it do."  
  
"It's 'cause the world's shaped like a ball, see," Reece said, and shrugged. "S'why all the officers have all that workin' out to do to know where we's at." He shrugged again and patted his musket. "Don't matter, does it. We knows the French is over there, an' our fleet's around here somewhere, an' there's goin' to be a famous battle out here somewhere. An' that's all that matters, ain't it?"  
  
It was about an hour later that _Pucelle_ finally turned west again, and the first ships of the British fleet came into view for the lookouts, and a further half an hour before they could be seen from on deck, although the seas this far north were a far cry from the sunny warmth of the Indian Ocean and the only Marines still on the foc'sle were starting to shiver by now because of the spray that was splashing up as _Pucelle_ 's bows thumped into the waves.  
  
The Marines weren't quite sure why they had been chasing _Revenant_ so desperately, and there were numerous theories about her: she was carrying treasure worth millions – everyone remembered the stories of the Spanish treasure fleet that had been captured, giving everyone in the British fleet responsible for the capture prize money totalling a couple of hundred years' pay each; there was a spy aboard with secret documents that the British government desperately wanted. All the theories were forgotten for now as they slowly drew up with the ships of the British fleet – huge things that in reality were nothing more than floating gun-batteries, despite their graceful lines and towering masts and spars. Twenty-seven ships, now twenty-eight with the addition of _Pucelle_ to their number, against thirty-three French and Spanish ships that were now thirty-four because they hadn't been able to stop _Revenant_ before now.  
  
The names of the ships that made up the fleet were famous: _Swiftsure_ , _Temeraire_ , _Bellerophon_ , _Tonnant_ , _Spartiate_ , _Mars_ , _Belleisle_ , _Royal Sovereign_ and of course the _Victory_ herself. If those ships were here, it was bound to be a famous battle, when it happened, wasn't it?  
  
It startled people when the first gun went off, and they looked at each other in consternation, which slowly turned to disbelief then jubilation as they realised that it was a seventeen-gun salute for Admiral Nelson.  
  
"Never thought I'd ever be on a ship under his command," Reece said, looking across to where the flagship was, with the Admiral's flag hanging limply in the light breeze, though it fluttered every now and then. Oxley looked up at the man, and then across at the large three-decked first-rate as though he could see the Admiral, who was probably below in his cabin right now. This was going to be a day to remember – heck, it'd be a _battle_ to remember; people still spoke in awe of having been at the Nile, or at Copenhagen with Nelson. There was definitely going to be a battle if Nelson was here, it stood to reason.  
  
Over their heads, the bright bunting of _Pucelle_ 's signal flags rose fluttering in the breeze, and was answered by another set of flags in _Victory_ 's rigging. A few moments later, a party of seamen came up on deck, carry paintbrushes and pots of yellow paint and shooed the Marines away so that they could get to painting the hoops of the foremast yellow to match those of the rest of the British fleet.  
  
"We'll definitely be seein' action, then," Darker said in satisfaction. "Why else would they be doin' that?"  
  
Oxley looked at him, confused.  
  
"Mean there's goin' to be a right poundin' match goin' on, don't it? An' we'll be so close in that they don't want to mistake us for one of the Frenchies by mistake, them havin' black hoops to their masts like we do at the moment."  
  
Oxley looked around at the other ships he could see in the fleet. "Makes sense," he said, shivering a little at the thought of being so close to an enemy ship that the only way of telling which side they were on was by the colour of their masts.  
  
There was no action that day, and night fell before the signal was given for the fleet to tack, the message passed by a complicated arrangements of lanterns hung in the rigging. Oxley, the duty drummer, stared up at the bright points of light hung in _Pucelle_ 's rigging, and tried not to shiver, despite his thick woollen jacket.  
  
Mister Sharpe looked equally cold – colder, in fact. He was still wearing his light coat, issued for the heat of India, and this far north the cold was noticeable. It was a shame, really, that officers had to buy their own uniforms, or he might have been able to ask Sergeant Fairwood if he could have one on temporary issue. He might be able to borrow a boat-cloak or something from Major Llewellyn, if nothing else. He straightened as the Ensign passed him, heading for the little cabin that he slept in, obviously chilled to the bone.  
  
Things would be different in the morning, Oxley was sure, though the thought of battle was terrifying as well as exhilarating. He hoped that he wouldn't disgrace himself, not in front of Mister Sharpe, who had fought probably hundreds of battles – he had to be twice Oxley's age, easily, and had told Oxley that he'd first enlisted when he was about sixteen, which meant that he'd been in the army for... well, since Oxley himself was born, if not before. And what with the Army fighting all over the place since then, he must have seen a lot of action.  
  
Oxley knew that the older Marines had seen action, too; some of them even boasted of having been with Nelson back when he'd lost his arm, and that was nearly ten years ago, at Tenerife. If he'd been sent to a frigate, he would probably have been in a battle or two himself by now – frigates were always off exploring and fighting and who knew what. But then, if he was in a frigate, he wouldn't have met Mister Sharpe and he certainly wouldn't get to take part in something as amazing as a whole fleet battle, like the Saintes, or the Glorious First of June, or the Nile, or Copenhagen...  
  
The thought was exciting and terrifying all at the same time, and he didn't think he'd ever get to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was actually a member of the 69th who crossed 'Nelson's Patent Bridge for Boarding First Rates' next to Nelson at the Battle of Cape St Vincent on the 14th February 1797... but the Marines don't necessarily know that! :D


	6. England Expects...

Oxley woke before dawn and scrambled to dress before hurrying to the galley to get some hot water for Mister Sharpe to shave. The Captain would order the galley fire put out before they got up close to the enemy; fire at sea was every sailor's worst nightmare and fire aboard during a battle was an even more terrifying prospect.  
  
The Captain's steward had served up some Scotch coffee for the drummer to take to the Army officer.  
  
The breeze remained stubbornly light. "It's goin' to take _hours_ to come up with 'em at this rate," Oxley said, passing Mister Sharpe the cup. "Sorry it ain't better'n Scotch coffee, sir. Ain't any proper beans left anywhere in the ship, sir."  
  
Sharpe shrugged and sipped at the liquid. It was hot, which was all that mattered to him. He finished it and gave the cup back to Oxley before heading out onto the quarterdeck. Oxley watched him go, and shivered. "Hope nuffin' 'appens to you, sir," he muttered, turning to return the cup to the wardroom whence it had come.  
  
The Marines' usual cleaning routine had changed; those who were not cleaning their musket locks were sitting, sharpening their bayonets with hand-stones. The armourer would be willing to put an edge on them with the treadle wheel, but the Marines preferred to work on their own weapons themselves. Besides which, the triangular section of the bayonets made it harder to give them a proper edge with anything but a hand-stone.  
  
Oxley had his musician's sword, which was his only weapon, and had joined the queue of sailors who were hoping to get a better edge put on the cutlasses and boarding pikes they were holding. He looked up, grinning nervously as Mister Sharpe joined the queue, carrying a cutlass.  
  
"Better'n the sabre you was wearing when you come aboard, that, sir," he said, and Sharpe looked down at him. "Do you know how to use that thing, Oxley?"  
  
The drummer nodded. "Yes, sir – bin doin' small-arms practise with it. Sar'nt Armstrong's bin teachin' Appleby an' me, ever since we come aboard, sir." He looked down. "Though I never used it for real, sir." He couldn't admit that he hoped he didn't have to use it for real now, but with a battle in the near future, it was as well to be prepared, just in case.  
  
"You want to go ahead, sir?" one of the seamen offered, and Sharpe shook his head. He was content to wait his turn.  
  
The queue of men slowly moved forwards, until Sharpe reached the head of the queue and handed his cutlass over. The armourer ran it up and down the wheel, and pressed his thumb against the edge. "That'll give they buggers a shave they'll never forget," he said, grinning. Sharpe took the weapon back and walked aft, towards where the panelled bulkheads had been. Oxley was sitting on a wooden cartridge case, and grinned up at him. There were other Marines there, too, some of them fussing with gun-tackle, or checking over equipment – their own and the guns' – and Sharpe grinned at them before heading topside, wondering how many of them would survive this battle. Would he survive it?  
  
There were more Marines topside, coiling ropes attached to grapnels, and they paused to acknowledge him as he headed past them to talk to Captain Chase.  
  
"Cool bugger, ain't he?" Brewer said, straightening up to stretch.  
  
"He's a soldier, he's bin in fights afore, you know," Gilchrist said. "Who done this'n? I never seen such a mess afore, I ain't." He bent to recoil one of the ropes.  
  
"Not one at sea, he ain't," Hawkins pointed out amiably.  
  
"First time for everythin'. Didn't your mother teach you that?" Darker said placidly, fastening a rope to a grapnel that had somehow not been given one yet.  
  
"'E never 'ad a mother," Brewer said, grinning.  
  
"Course I did, you!" Hawkins returned. "Here, what's goin' on over there?" He indicated to the quarterdeck with a nod, and the others turned to look.  
  
"Looks like the Captain's goin' a-visitin' – and takin' Mister Sharpe with him," Brewer said after a moment.  
  
The Marines chuckled. "Hope Nelson don't mind him lookin' like he's bin dragged through a hedge back'ards," Hawkins added.  
  
"He don't look so bad as all that," Gilchrist said critically, as Sharpe turned to clamber down into the boat. "No worse'n you or me'd look if we didn't have a new jacket when we needed'n, anyway."  
  
"All right, cut the cackle. You've got enough work t'be goin' on with," Sergeant Armstrong growled.  
  
The Marines rolled their eyes behind his back, careful not to be seen.  
  
Nobody was quite sure how long it had been when the captain's barge was spotted returning from the flag-ship, but it had certainly been a couple of bells, easily. There were secret grins and winks as the Captain insisted that Mister Sharpe be the first one out of the boat, despite the fact that precedence meant that the Captain should be the last one into the boat and the first one out of it.  
  
The Captain called his officers – and Mister Sharpe – aft for a brief conference on the quarterdeck, before Major Llewellyn turned to stalk forwards, calling for his Sergeants when he was close enough. The Marines looked at each other in bewilderment for the few seconds before the Sergeants nodded and saluted the Major.  
  
"Right. No sharpshooters in the tops, Admiral's orders," Armstrong said, returning to the fo'c'sle. "Gilchrist, get them grenades back down to the magazine. Ain't no point 'avin' 'em up here on deck to cause any mischief if a Frog gets lucky, after all. An' Mister Sharpe's goin' to be in charge up here an' I don't want no nonsense, McEwen, that clear?"  
  
"Aye, aye, Sergeant." Gilchrist handed his musket over to Hawkins and bent to pick the box of grenades up, turning to carry it below.  
  
"Aye, aye, Sergeant." McEwen's reply was a little sulky – he never gave anybody any trouble, least of all Sergeant Armstrong, who didn't like the Scots but had somehow contrived to get every Scots Marine aboard into his squad.  
  
No sharpshooters in the tops? The rest of the Marines on deck looked at each other, shrugged and turned to watch the enemy fleet as they drew slowly closer. Some of them climbed up onto the rail, clinging to the shrouds of the foremast, as if that would give them a clearer view.  
  
The band started playing Nancy Dawson, more enthusiastically than tunefully, and then went on through _Drops of Brandy_ and moved onto _Yarmouth Town_. Someone started singing the words, very loudly and very enthusiastically, joined by several of the others by the time he reached the line "and the string around her finger was all that she wore!" which caused his lordship to move across to speak to Captain Chase.  
  
"The old stuffed-shirt don't seem to like the song," Brewer observed, nudging Gilchrist, who had just returned topside.  
  
"Stuck-up bastard," Gilchrist replied with a shrug. "Let 'im not like it – ain't like he's goin' to get killed in this 'ere fight, is he? Don't have to be so damn mean about it, though."  
  
"Looks like Her Ladyship don't like it either," Hawkins said, and sighed. "Bugger this swell. Reckon we're in for a storm later."  
  
"Sky looks kinda glassy too," Darker added, glancing skyward. "Hope it holds off till after, like, else things're likely to get a mite hairy."  
  
"Reckon things're goin' to get a mite hairy anyway. You _seen_ how many ships there is over there?" Hawkins indicated the Combined Fleet with a gesture of his thumb.  
  
"Reckon I can't count, is that it?" Darker said, grinning, and checked the flint in his musket for the umpteenth time.  
  
"Well, we all know you hafta take your shoes off to get up to twenty," Gilchrist put in, to laughter from the others.  
  
Hawkins shook his head. "Walked into that one, mate," he said, chuckling.  
  
"Shut up, there. Hats off," Darker said, indicating the quarterdeck, where the Captain was standing bareheaded. The Marines whipped off their own hats and stood in respectful silence as the Captain read the Prayer to be Said Before a Fight at Sea Against Any Enemy, and joined in with the Amens of the rest of the crew. O'Malley crossed himself, and hoped that God would hear the Captain's prayer despite him not being Catholic.  
  
The fleets drifted closer and closer. It was a surprise to nearly everyone when the first ball whipped overhead, and several of the Marines on the foc'sle ducked involuntarily, looking rather shame-faced as they straightened up.  
  
"Looks like the Adm'ral's goin' straight at 'em," Darker reported wonderingly, peering over the rail. "I mean, they's in line and we're goin' right for the middle of it, goin' to break 'em in two, like."  
  
"Try in three," Hawkins said dryly, from his position by the starboard rail. "Admiral Collingwood's over there, not part of this column at all."  
  
"Whatever. Means we're goin' to be shot at ourselves for God knows how long without bein' able to fire back."  
  
"Oh, lookit Molly, there," Brewer said admiringly, as the gunner's wife emerged from below-decks carrying a can of water for one of the gun-crews. Someone wolf-whistled and she tossed her long red hair over her shoulder, but otherwise ignored the cheers and catcalls of the men.  
  
"There's a sight for sore eyes, sure," O'Malley answered, leaning on his musket, before leaning out to try to see the enemy fleet beyond the _Pucelle_ 's bowsprit.  
  
"What, the Frog fleet?" Darker asked, amused.  
  
O'Malley straightened up and rolled his eyes. "No. Molly, there, to be sure."  
  
"Didn't look like you meant Molly," Hawkins said good-naturedly, watching her as she went below again.  
  
"Here, what's that?" O'Malley wanted to know, looking across at the big first-rate that was leading the column. He turned to look at the little _Euryalus_ , whose role here was simply to repeat the Admiral's signals.  
  
"Never seen a signal so long as that afore," Brewer said wonderingly, looking at the bright bunting that was hanging from all three of the frigate's masts.  
  
The Marines looked aft towards the quarterdeck. It was a few minutes before the message was passed for'rard. "Says, _England expects that every man will do his duty_ ," one of the quarter-gunners said, over the cheering that had spread from aft. The Marines looked at each other, grinned, and joined in the cheering.  
  
Oxley had been standing by for all this time, waiting impatiently to beat to Quarters – although the _Pucelle_ had been ready for hours, and when Captain Chase finally told Major Llewellyn, "Your drummer can beat to quarters, I think," he hauled his sticks out even before the Major nodded at him, and began beating Hearts of Oak, walking forwards to head down to the weather deck so that everyone would hear it and know. Once he had done that, he would need to go to his own station as a powder-monkey.  
  
And still the two fleets drifted on slowly convergent courses in the light breeze. It was a surprise to everyone when the first cannon-ball came overhead, and some of the Marines on the foc'sle ducked instinctively, straightening up immediately afterwards and looking rather shame-faced. "Time you duck, it's too late anyway," Hawkins pointed out, wiping his hands on his white duck trousers before straightening as Mister Sharpe joined them.  
  
The Ensign had been given nominal charge of the Marines on the foc'sle, although the reality was that they were under Sergeant Armstrong's command, and the Ensign was there merely for appearances. The Sergeant had one of the seven-barrelled volley guns that had recently been introduced to Naval service. He was one of the few men strong enough to be able to fire one.  
  
"You can take your eyes off that, sir," he said with a scowl, noticing Sharpe's interest. "I'm savin' it for when we board one of the bastards – there's nothin' like a volley gun for clearin' an enemy deck."  
  
The Marines moved aside as Sharpe walked over to one of the carronades to have a word with its gun-captain. The sea between the two fleets showed white splashes now and then as a cannon-ball fell short of its intended target, vanishing harmlessly into the water with nothing to show but a momentary splash. The splashes were growing more frequent, and every now and then a ball found a target – holes were appearing in the canvas spread of the leading ships.  
  
"I'm going below, to draw a musket from stores," Sharpe said a few minutes later, causing Darker and Hawkins to exchange a startled glance. They knew he could use a musket, but none of _Pucelle_ 's Marines had known an officer to use a musket in battle.  
  
"Takes all sorts," Hawkins muttered, and Brewer had to disguise a snort as a cough as the officer passed him to head down the fore companionway.  
  
Tait, the Marine on sentry by the magazine looked at him in surprise as he passed to collect a musket and pistol from the rack, and stepped aside as a boy passed to fetch the officer some ammunition for the weapons. "Goin' to be some warm work today, sir," he said, noticing with approval as the ensign checked the flints of both weapons.  
  
"We're not in range yet," Sharpe replied, pulling the white cross-belt over his head.  
  
"They ain't shootin' at thin air, though. Even the Frogs ain't that daft, sir."  
  
"The _Victory_ 's ahead of us," Sharpe said, tugging it into place and making sure that he could get to the pouch comfortably.  
  
"Well, an' that's all right, then," Tait returned, and scowled down at one of the boys. "No, you can't go in there yet. You jus' wait till they hand you a cartridge through the curtain." 


	7. Engage the Enemy

  
They still couldn't return fire, although they were in range now and a ball hit the ship's side, the first one to have any serious impact, gouging halfway through the starboard cathead. "Wish it'd be the last an' all," Hawkins muttered gloomily, looking up guiltily as Mister Sharpe rejoined them. They were crouching by the packed hammock nettings in obedience to Captain Chase's order for everyone to lie down, although none of them was convinced that the hammocks would give much protection from ball or chain shot – though chain shot and bar shot were designed to wreck the masts, sails and rigging rather than to kill men, but they would still kill as surely as roundshot if anyone were fool enough to get in the way.  
  
The only one on the fo'c'sle who was not taking what cover the hammock netting afforded was Sergeant Armstrong, who was scowling at the French and Spanish ships from his position by the foremast.  
  
" _Royal Sov'reign_ 's broke their line," Darker reported, risking bobbing up for a moment so he could see what was going on. "Poor sods. They's takin' a helluva poundin'."  
  
"Shurrup, that'll be us soon," Gilchrist said morosely, and shivered.  
  
Another ball came overhead, punching its way through the fore-course and then the main-course to drop into the water astern.  
  
"Think I'm glad I ain't aloft this time," Brewer said, looking up with a shiver of his own.  
  
The balls seemed to be coming thick and fast. One dropped short and the resulting water-spout splattered the Marines' walk and the few men further for'rard. Another caught the sprit-sail yard, breaking it in half and dropping it into the water alongside.  
  
"That's chain shot, sir," Sergeant Armstrong informed the Ensign, who looked puzzled at the whistling sound overhead. "Sounds like the devil's wings beating, it does."  
  
"They's tryin' to wreck our riggin', sir," Maddox said. He was going to say something else, but nobody ever knew what as a cannon-ball came low over the hammock-nettings, throwing him down in a welter of blood. Two others had gone down with the ball's passing before it dropped into the water alongside.  
  
The others blinked in shock, staring at his body. "Jesus Christ," Darker managed in a low voice, and shook himself as Sergeant Armstrong ordered crisply, "Throw him overboard."  
  
Darker and Brewer hurried to obey, only to be checked a second later. "Get his ammunition – and see what's in his pockets. Didn't your mothers ever tell you to waste not, want not?"  
  
"Mackay's dead, Sergeant, an' Reece ain't goin' to make it," Hawkins reported a moment later, and bent to unfasten their ammunition pouches.  
  
"Mary mother of God," O'Malley kept saying, over and over, crossing himself. Brewer and Hawkins exchanged a glance. Who knew whether any of them were going to see the end of the day, or not? And if O'Malley's repeated pleas took his mind off what was going on, well, good for him – he'd be firing his musket as capably as anyone else when it came down to it.  
  
Mister Sharpe was by the foremast, loading his own musket and pistol, seemingly oblivious to the passing shot from the French ship ahead of them. The Combined Fleet was nearly hidden in a dense bank of powder-smoke, which did little or nothing to prevent shots hitting _Pucelle_. The _Victory_ was still ahead, closely followed by the _Temeraire_ , sailing for the line as though nothing could stand in their way.  
  
Sailors were in _Pucelle_ 's rigging, desperately re-reeving or splicing lines in an effort to keep her sails drawing in the light air. The cannon fire was not the only danger now; there were sharpshooters in the enemy's fighting tops, firing their muskets down indiscriminately. Even fired blind, the musket balls could kill just as easily as a cannon-ball could, though with less obvious damage.  
  
Gilchrist swore in sudden pain. A ball had hit the rail, and a splinter had scored his arm, soaking the sleeve of his jacket in blood. "Ain't... ain't but a scratch, Sergeant," he said, as Armstrong caught his eye.  
  
"Move your fingers, boy," the Sergeant said, and he did so, gritting his teeth. "You can pull a trigger. But bind it up."  
  
He shrugged and took his neckcloth off – very few of the Marines were wearing the regulation leather stock, not for this battle – and wrapped it around his arm.  
  
Aft on the quarterdeck, men were standing up to crew the carronades, and the fo'c'sle gun crews stirred themselves likewise, although they were not yet through the line of the Combined Fleet.  
  
Another marine swore as a musket ball hit him in the shoulder. He staggered to try to regain his balance, and the movement caught the Sergeant's eye. "Make your own way to the surgeon and don't make a fuss," Armstrong said, nodding as he moved his uninjured arm to take his cartridge-pouch off, leaving it for those still on deck.  
  
They were almost within touching distance now of a Spanish ship whose figurehead was a monk holding a crucifix. There was a judder, a groan and then a tearing, splintering sound as _Pucelle_ 's bowsprit tangled with the Spaniard's before the Spanish ship's jib-boom broke off short, leaving _Pucelle_ heading into a sudden gap.  
  
And suddenly the first of _Pucelle_ 's guns went off, one of the fo'c'sle's carronades, captained by Clouter, one of the Captain's bargemen. The other guns sounded, a slow and stately double broadside as she fired her guns at the enemy ships either side of her. The Marines stirred themselves, aiming aloft at the enemy tops, trying to get their sharpshooters.  
  
The Spanish ship, a smaller vessel than the 74-gun _Pucelle_ , rammed her, pushing her around to starboard. There was a wrenching, juddering scraping before the Spanish captain backed his topsails, allowing his ship to fall back from the British ship-of-the-line. The Marines were firing blindly into the Spanish rigging, and at the visible men on her deck. And then there was nothing to fire at, they had broken through the line and there was no enemy near apart from the French ship that was being hampered by her mizzenmast which had been broken by one of _Pucelle_ 's balls and now lay in the water, still attached by the wreckage of its rigging.  
  
 _Pucelle_ herself came around, wearing because she had not enough speed to tack. The battle looked as though it was slowly moving around her, relatively speaking, although that was simply an illusion because there was nothing else to measure against but sea and sky. The wounded were taken below to the surgeon and the dead were thrown overboard. They would get a proper service later but for now, the bodies had to go into the water as they were to make space for the living to move and do their duty.  
  
"They're goin' to board her!"  
  
Hawkins' voice made the rest of the Marines on the fo'c'sle look around in shock, to see what he was pointing at. " _Victory_ \- they Frogs want to board her!"  
  
The French ship he was pointing towards had grappled with the big first-rate, whose own Marines were firing desultorily at the enemy's tops and decks.  
  
The French captain shouted something, waving aloft, but the _Pucelle_ 's Marines could not hear what, over the fifty feet between the two ships and the firing that was still going on all around them – and even if they could have heard they could not have understood the French.  
  
"His mainyard," Brewer said in sudden understanding. The big spar would easily cross the thirty-foot gap between the Frenchman's rail and the _Victory_ 's – the tumblehomes of the two ships meant that their rails could not get any closer than that. It would be a narrow bridge, but that would not matter to a nimble-footed topman.  
  
The _Victory_ 's upper decks seemed almost deserted, but they couldn't be – a man fell from the Frenchman's maintop. The Marines must be using what little cover the carronades and hammock nettings provided.  
  
And then the Frenchman's mainyard fell, crushing _Victory_ 's hammock-netting and lay like a log across the French ship's waist. Its end lay solidly across the flagship's rail, jutting over her weather-deck.  
  
Clouter, the big black ex-slave who was now one of the Captain's trusted bargemen, had his hand on the lanyard of one of the fo'c'sle carronades, preparing to fire into the French ship. He waited, watching for the opportune moment. The downroll came and the carronade fired, sweeping the spar clear of boarders and giving _Victory_ a moment's respite.  
  
 _Pucelle_ was now moving past the Frenchman, a bare pistol-shot away, and as her larboard guns came to bear, they fired into the French ship's quarter, wreaking a terrible vengeance. The French captain had called his men away to board, and so there was no reply from the big cannon, but her tops were still filled with sharpshooters, who turned their muskets down onto _Pucelle_.  
  
It was a horribly unequal fight. The Marines were outnumbered, but did their best, reloading as quickly as shaking hands would allow, aiming up, trying not to mind the musket balls and grenades that rained down.  
  
One Marine staggered back from the rail, trying to gasp for air. Brewer had a musket ball slice along his throat. "Spit!" Mister Sharpe called and he looked up blankly, before spitting. "No blood in it, you'll live. Get yourself to the surgeon!"  
  
A musket-ball hit Sergeant Armstrong's left foot, and he swore, fired his musket, picked up Mackay's musket, abandoned earlier, and fired that, before a grenade hit the deck and exploded. Somehow the Sergeant hadn't been killed, and he upended a firebucket over the flame, dousing it. The Sergeant was wounded, but was still reloading his musket and firing up.  
  
Gilchrist didn't even have time to think, to be startled, as Mister Sharpe grabbed the sergeant's volley-gun and looked up. The officer shrugged and moved across to the starboard rail and scrambled awkwardly up, slinging the fat gun over his shoulder as he began to climb the shrouds. "Sir! You ain't no sailor, don't go doin' that!" Gilchrist called, though his words were drowned by the sounds of battle all around.  
  
It was only moments later when the Ensign came back down the shrouds, climbing as nimbly as any Marine Gilchrist had ever seen, dropped the volley gun and picked up a musket before crossing to the larboard rail. Sergeant Armstrong was sitting with his back to the foremast, methodically firing and reloading his musket, despite having his right eye closed by blood that had seeped from a head wound. His hat had long vanished.  
  
"Sergeant, you should go below!" Sharpe called.  
  
"Fuck that," the sergeant replied, flatly, reloading before firing at the French ship again.  
  
The _Pucelle_ was turning again – or beginning to. And something went wrong and the turn stopped abruptly. "Oh, my God," Hawkins breathed, glancing aft. The wheel was smashed beyond hope, and astern of them loomed a new ship, seemingly undamaged. "For what we are about to receive...."  
  
They were being raked. Shot after shot poured through _Pucelle_ 's defenceless stern, sweeping along the length of the ship and killing and destroying everyone and everything that got in the way.  
  
And then the mizzen swayed drunkenly to one side, slowly leaning further and further over to fall alongside to starboard, still connected to the ship by the starboard standing rigging. The ship began to turn again – tiller ropes had been reeved below-decks and the fallen mizzen was acting like a sea-anchor, dragging the _Pucelle_ out of danger. The starboard broadside fired, only seven guns going off because the others had been dismounted or had too few surviving men to be able to man them.  
  
A second broadside fired, more guns firing this time as the starboard guns were reinforced by men leaving the larboard guns. The Captain led the way to the poop-deck to cut the mizzen free. The new enemy, the _Revenant_ \- the ship they had chased across half the world – was preparing to board, but a quarterdeck carronade fired, beating them back.  
  
The _Pucelle_ 's ensign had gone, fallen with the mizzenmast, but someone had rescued it because now it flew from the larboard maintopsail yard, looking very strange there, but still proud, though streaked with red now. The Captain was pacing the quarterdeck, looking as unperturbed as ever, though nobody would blame him if he were to take shelter under the break of the poop, where Major Llewellyn had gathered his Marines. From fo'c'sle to quarterdeck was not such a great distance, but with everything that was going on, the two could have been different countries.  
  
Young Mister Collier had got a huge net of oranges from somewhere and was handing them out among the men.  
  
 _Revenant_ slammed into _Pucelle_ , and the deck juddered underfoot, knocking one or two Marines off-balance completely. "They're tyin' us together," Brewer said, looking up to the mainyard, before scrambling back to his feet. Sergeant Armstrong was dying, bleeding to death, but still fired his musket up at the enemy's fighting top, as Mister Sharpe was. There were only ten Marines left on the fo'c'sle now.  
  
An orange rolled across the deck, bumping the Ensign's foot, and he thumped it with the musket butt, scooping up pulped flesh into his mouth before giving the Sergeant some.  
  
"We're winning, aren't we?" the Sergeant mumbled.  
  
"We're murderin' the bastards," the officer remarked cheerfully, and turned as a midshipman came up to him.  
  
"Marines, sir, needed below!"  
  
"Marines!"  
  
Gilchrist's arm was stinging, but the bandage was doing its work and he gripped his musket, pulling his bayonet from its scabbard and twisting it into place on the muzzle. Strange how hot a musket got after firing, he though, inconsequentially, as he followed Mister Sharpe and his fellow Marines down the fore companionway, and down again into the hell that was the lower gundeck.


	8. Boarders Away!

The lower gundeck looked like a charnel house. There were dismounted cannon, dead and wounded seamen, wrecked equipment. The mainmast had a cannon-ball buried in it. The Marines didn't know how anyone could have lived through the raking they had just received from the thrice-damned _Revenant_. They had managed to turn before the Frenchy ship could empty all her guns, though enough of them had fired the length of _Pucelle_ to cause some serious havoc.  
  
And now the French were trying to board. The Pucelles weren't having any of it. The Marines who had been on the gun-crews, or acting as powder-monkeys, hastily grabbed their equipment and muskets and joined their comrades who were coming down from the weather-deck. Oxley was there, a cloth tied around his head. He had a grim look on his young face, and was gripping his short musician's sword.  
  
The starboard cannon were still firing – well, half of them were. The others had been dismounted or did not have enough men left alive to serve them. The French were slashing and hacking through the empty gunports and Oxley stared wildly as Mister Sharpe fired his musket into the face of one man before running to the next gunport and using the heavy brass-bound butt to hammer another man's arm.  
  
"Simmons!" the officer called, sounding hoarse, yelling at a nearby Marine, who started and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Simmons! Go to the after magazine and get the grenades!"  
  
The Marine blinked, thrust his musket at a comrade and turned and ran for the companionway, swearing at his comrades who tried to stop him. "Get up there, you two. The damn French are tryin' to board!" Cray and Morgan gaped at him, and glanced at each other, grasped their muskets tighter and turned to scramble up to the upper gun-deck. They were taking their lives into their hands by thus deserting their posts, but the sounds of the battle had changed and nobody was coming down unless they were wounded.  
  
There was a deafening crash and tearing sound that went on and on and then came to a sudden stop, as though a mast had gone. Whose mast, though, was anyone's guess.  
  
Simmons pushed roughly past the queue of sweating, anxious powder monkeys and was brought up short by Tait, still on sentry by the magazine.  
  
"Grenades!" he gasped out. Tait took one look at Simmons, thrust his musket into his hand and stuck his head through the gap in the heavy fearnought curtain. "Grenades," he said. "Box over there," he added, pointing. The gunner and his mates looked up, startled, and one of them turned, grabbed the box and thrust it into Tait's hands. He withdrew and gave the box to Simmons, taking his musket back. "You be damn careful with that, mate," he said, only to receive a puzzled look from the other Marine, who turned and headed back up to the fighting going on above them.  
  
Mister Sharpe tore the box open, snatched one of the grenades and took a slow-match from one of the match-tubs to light its fuse. The fuse sputtered and caught and he hurled the grenade through _Pucelle_ 's gunport into the _Revenant_ , where it exploded in a sheet of flame. He turned, thrust the slow-match into Simmons' hand and headed down the length of the deck. Simmons and Cray began lighting the grenades' fuses, throwing the glass globes across to _Revenant_. One shattered against the hull, but most were well-aimed, going through the gunports to explode inside the French ship.  
  
There was a sudden sound of feet above them, and a yell that sounded faint to ear deafened by the continuous firing of the great guns. "Repel boarders! Repel boarders!"  
  
Mister Sharpe turned. "Marines!" He received a few blank looks from men who could no longer hear properly. Corporal Kinsley saw him go back up the companionway, and tugged at Darker's sleeve, before moving among his fellow Marines, getting their attention and pointing up the companionway. "Move it, move it, repel boarders!" he shouted into deaf ears, waiting for the look of comprehension before moving on to the next man.  
  
The Marines grasped their muskets and headed topside. Simmons grabbed the Corporal's sleeve and gestured to the box. "Give's a hand with this here, Corp'ral," he said, grasping one handle in his free hand. The Corporal turned, nodded and took the other side, heading up on deck. There were only a few grenades left now, but they might come in handy.  
  
The crash had been the _Revenant_ 's main-mast, which joined the main-yard to provide a bridge for the French sailors to cross the gap between the two ships. More Marines were coming down from the poop, led by Major Llewellyn, who had lost his hat. They streamed along the starboard gangway, blocking the way for the dozen or so Frenchmen who were trying to head aft to reach the _Pucelle_ 's quarterdeck.  
  
The French were in the waist of the ship, hacking and cutting at fallen men. A French officer was grabbing swabs and rammers and throwing them overboard. Darker knelt and aimed his musket at the man, only for the flint to fail to spark, which made him swear. "Cray – get him," he yelled, realising that his fellow Marine still had a fresh flint in his musket. The other took one look and fired, sending the Frenchman back in a spray of blood.  
  
A sailor was wielding a handspike like a long, heavy club, and other grabbed at pikes and cutlasses that were set ready for use. Mister Sharpe was under the break of the fo'c'sle now, with young Oxley beside him. The officer was using his cutlass, but had to step back to avoid a huge French sailor with an axe. The officer slipped or tripped and ended up sprawled on the deck. Oxley couldn't help because he was trying to fend off a sailor himself, but Gilchrist was there with a bayonet-tipped musket, and Clouter was there too, ramming a boarding pike at the man, impaling him. The sailor switched pike for axe and ran on, yelling.  
  
Simmons saw his opportunity and lit a grenade fuse, throwing it among the knot of Frenchmen. The grenade exploded, throwing Frenchmen down. The deck was slick with blood and the resulting flame didn't ignite the wood of the deck-planking, or any fallen wreckage, before it burned out. He slammed the lid of the box down and dragged it up to the starboard gangway, where the Marines Major Llewellyn had brought down from the poop were guarding the mainmast, shooting at anyone who tried to cross from the _Revenant_. The Pucelles were furious at the attempt on their ship and it was a while before anyone understood that Captain Chase was trying to stop them fighting, stop them killing men who had nowhere to go. "Take their weapons! Take their weapons!"  
  
"Buggers can stand on the poop and be shot at," the captain said grimly. "I don't want them below, they could make mischief."  
  
Major Llewellyn bent to wipe his sword on the shirt of a dead Frog before returning it to its scabbard. "Right. Ah, Corporal Kinsley. Anyone seen Sergeant Armstrong?"  
  
"He was dyin' when we left the fo'c'sle, sir," Darker reported, glancing at the Corporal, who looked somewhat stunned.  
  
"Sar'nt Fairwood got creased by a bullet, sir," Morgan volunteered, quailing a little under the glare he received from the Major.  
  
"Why have you left your post?" the major wanted to know.  
  
"Was bein' boarded below-decks, sir, was needed to reinforce 'em."  
  
Llewellyn shrugged, then sighed. "No matter. You can stay topside. Gilchrist, you take his post – you look as though you're going to drop if you stay up here. I can't spare anyone else. And send Hewett up here. If there are any more walking wounded, get someone to relieve Ingalls and Tait too."  
  
"Aye, aye, sir," Gilchrist replied and headed below.  
  
There was still firing going on beneath their feet, as _Pucelle_ and _Revenant_ ground together. With the Marines redeployed, Major Llewellyn turned to head back to the quarterdeck but slipped in a pool of blood. His foot went from under him and he caught his shin on the boat-tier. There was an audible crack and he went white and swore viciously.  
  
"Sir?" Morgan was the nearest Marine to the officer and he dropped to one knee beside the Major.  
  
"Bust my leg, dammit. Help me up," the major managed, between gritted teeth. Morgan stooped, put the officer's arm around his neck and gingerly straightened. "Best we get you down to the surgeon, sir," he said, expecting a protest. The only reply he got was a brief nod. "Here, Darker, give us a hand, would you?" he added, looking around for the nearest able-bodied Marine. They carefully arranged the officer between them until they could carry him below without jarring his leg too much.  
  
While this was happening, the Captain was still standing on the quarterdeck and had called on the French captain to surrender, and been refused.  
  
O'Malley turned as someone grabbed his musket from his hand, to find Mister Sharpe aiming it at someone aboard the _Revenant_ , who ducked down out of sight. The Ensign gave the musket back, a look of disgust on his tanned face.  
  
There was more gunfire, sudden and loud, and the Marines looked around before realising that _Spartiate_ had entered the fray, emptying a slow but sure broadside into _Revenant_ 's stern. The French ship's mizzen, which had remained standing, snapped, toppling over to land in the sea alongside, throwing sharpshooters and their weapons into the water.  
  
The Captain looked around the ruin of the quarterdeck. "Where's Major Llewellyn?" he asked the nearest Marine. Hawkins straightened, swallowing. "Broken leg, sir – just this minute gone below."  
  
"Lieutenant Swallow?"  
  
"Think he's dead, sir. Badly wounded, anyway."  
  
 _Revenant_ 's guns began firing again as the Captain looked across at Ensign Sharpe. "Assemble a boarding party, Mister Sharpe."  
  
"Yes, sir," Sharpe said, wondering if the Captain would have preferred the reply to be 'Aye, aye, sir.'  
  
The sky was darker now, and the swells bigger. The French Captain, realising that the Pucelles were going to attempt to board, sent men to try to cut the mainmast loose, to deny them a bridge.  
  
Further away, there was an orange glow as a French ship, _Achille_ burned, blowing up minuted later when the fire reached her magazines. Fourteen enemy ships were captured, now, including the giant _Santissima Trinidad_ , the biggest ship in the world. _Redoutable_ had an English flag draped over the wreckage of her stern. Another dozen ships still fought on, among them _Revenant_.  
  
Captain Chase gestured at the carronades. "Get them busy!" he yelled, and men ran from the long guns to tend to the short fat carronades on their slides.  
  
The _Revenant_ 's foresail was alight now, nobody knew how, and men were running to try to douse it. Some of the Marines lifted their muskets to aim for the firefighters. "Let them be, let them be," the Captain shouted, and Kinsley knocked the nearest musket up so its ball passed harmlessly over the French firefighters' heads. "If she catches fire, so do we," the corporal said, indicating the wreckage of _Revenant_ 's mainmast.  
  
The burning wreckage went over the side and then the carronades spat death and hell. A French gun exploded. _Revenant_ was being pounded into a hulk and could no longer give as good as she got for she had fewer guns left in action than the _Pucelle_ had.  
  
"Marines! Marines!" The voice did not belong to either of their officers, but was so insistent that the Marines turned to find it was Mister Sharpe calling for them. "We're boarding her! Get pikes, cutlasses, pistols – make sure your muskets are loaded."  
  
A couple of Marines felt the edges of their flints and paused to change them for fresh before loading. Darker had already done so and twisted his bayonet into place, turning the weapon into a pike. Oxley was there too, looking grim, his short sword in his hand, and a pistol tucked into his trousers waistband.  
  
"Who's got a volley gun?" the officer wanted to know.  
  
Sergeant Fairwood held one up.  
  
"Is it loaded?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Give it here," Sharpe said, and Fairwood held it out with a shrug, taking the officer's musket in exchange, before leading the way up to the quarterdeck and along the starboard gangway. Captain Chase was right behind him, and put out a hand. "Me first, Sharpe!"  
  
"Sir!" The Ensign protested, and behind him the Marines grinned at each other.  
  
"Come on, boys!" the Captain called, running easily along the broken, splintered spar.  
  
"Come on," Sharpe repeated, running along the spar. He paused to look down when he was halfway along it, and Hawkins yelled, "Keep going, sir!"  
  
He reached the end of the spar and paused again to fire the volley-gun before jumping down, throwing the weapon aside and drawing his cutlass. The Marines poured forwards, the late sun gleaming orange off their steel-tipped muskets.  
  
This was a gutter-fight, pure and simple, and the Marines paused to fire, before plunging in with bayonet and musket-butt, screaming in fury at the French who tried to withstand them. Captain Chase was heading aft, while Mister Sharpe went for'rard. The Captain's barge crew went aft with him, fighting their way to the quarter-deck steps, and some of the Marines went that way too, while the rest went for'ard.  
  
"Fire at those bastards!" the Ensign yelled, indicating a group of musket-armed Frenchmen standing by the fo'c'sle rail. Someone aimed a volley gun at them, but he snatched it away. "Use a musket, lad," he said, and the Marine shrugged.  
  
A ragged volley went off, six or seven muskets firing together from a small group of Marines. The balls spun some of the Frenchmen down, dead or wounded. The ensign was moving again, heading down the fore companionway, and the Marines shrugged and followed him, their jackets bright in the sudden dimness of the upper gundeck. Down he went again, sliding down the companionway on his arse, and brought the volley-gun into his shoulder, firing it blindly. The bullets ricocheted through the ruin of the gun-deck, where guns still fired hopelessly at the _Pucelle_. "Stop firing! Stop firing, you bastards!" He rammed the butt of the volley-gun into a Frenchman's belly, doubling him over. "It's over, stop firing."  
  
He crossed over to one gunport. "Pucelle! Pucelle!"  
  
"Who's that?"  
  
"Ensign Sharpe! Stop firing!"  
  
One last cannon fired and there was a sudden silence.  
  
"Disarm them and get them on deck," Sharpe said, looking around at the nearest Marines, who shrugged and moved forward to begin the process of getting the French on deck.


	9. Honour This Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, unbeta'd, not yet read through - posted at silly o'clock in the morning, so probably chockful of mistakes. I was planning this to be eight chapters long, with an epilogue... looks as though it'll be nine chapters long with an epilogue. Aren't you lucky!
> 
> Comments always appreciated! :D

The fighting was over. The white ensign still flew from _Pucelle_ 's main yardarm, only it was streaked pink now with Lieutenant Haskell's blood. He had died, as had so many others, in a battle the like of which few had ever seen.  
  
Lieutenant Haskell was not the only officer who had died. Lieutenant Swallow of the Royal Marines had died too. The fleet's greatest loss was Admiral Nelson, killed by a sharpshooter firing down from _Redoutable_.  
  
"Why wouldn't he let us go up?" Hawkins wanted to know, speaking quietly. "He mightn't have died if he'd had Marines in the tops."  
  
The others shrugged. They didn't know either, but it had been done, and the Admiral had been killed by a bullet that had undoubtedly come from the mizzentop of the _Redoutable_. It was a matter of conjecture whether the Marines would have been able to kill that sharpshooter first or not, but what was done was done, and the Admiral's death cast a sombre pall over the entire British fleet.  
  
The fleet was trying to prepare for a storm – the sky had an ominous cast and the swell was much stronger and more noticeable now. The news of the Admiral's death had been passed by an officer of the _Conqueror_ who has shouted the news up to _Pucelle_ 's quarterdeck, leaving officers and seamen alike astounded, bereft.  
  
The Pucelles still had a job to do, though. The Frenchmen were kept aboard the _Revenant_ , all apart from the French Captain who was going to be kept aboard _Pucelle_.  
  
The carpenter and his mates were busy hammering plugs into shot-holes, though there weren't as many of those as there could have been – most of the damage was aloft because of the French and Spanish habit of firing high to try to disable masts, rigging and canvas. There was quite enough work below-decks, however. _Pucelle_ still had her bowsprit, fore and main-masts, so she was in much better shape than many other ships, even if there was a ball buried in the mainmast as it passed through the lower gundeck. _Revenant_ had lost her mainmast, which meant she could not carry very much canvas on her fore- or mizzenmasts as they were both missing the vital stays which helped support them.  
  
The wind had risen now, too, which only served to make things harder. Bodies were still being brought up from the lower gundeck, and some of the Marines paused in helping to right a gun on the upper gundeck as big Clouter and another sailor carried the body of Lord William Hale past.  
  
"Ain't no more'n the bastard deserved," Hawkins said, wiping his brow.  
  
"I'm surprised 'e even joined in with the fightin' at all," Simmons added, looking ruefully down at his hands.  
  
"Wouldn't surprise me if it was summat else'd happened," Gilchrist said darkly. He'd had his arm properly bandaged, and was helping out as best he could, because they had lost a lot of men dead and more injured. The Marines themselves had taken a fair few casualties, including Sergeant Armstrong, whose body had been found on the fo'c'sle, still clutching his musket.  
  
"Ain't none of us goin' to say anythin' to anyone, all right?" Hawkins said, looking round.  
  
"No need to get so riled up, 'course we ain't," Darker said peaceably.  
  
The galley fire had been relit, despite the threatened storm, and the crew was called to their early supper in two sittings, rather than the usual one with some men eating early, because there was so much work still to be done.  
  
The bulkheads had been replaced to put the Captain's cabin and the wardroom back to some semblance of normality, at least from the outside. The wardroom officers, those who were left, ate hurriedly. Captain Chase had his food brought to him on the quarterdeck, from where he was supervising the desperately needed repairs.  
  
The tables had been slung between the guns again, though sea-chests still needed to be brought up from the hold, so seamen and Marines ended up perching on the guns, which were still warm, or finding space on the deck-planking to eat their food.  
  
"Has anyone seen Mister Sharpe?" Sergeant Fairwood wanted to know, coming up from the surgeon's domain on the orlop with a bandage around his head. The Marines looked at each other and then up at the Sergeant, shaking their heads.  
  
"He ain't snuffed it, though, Sar'nt, I do know that," Hewett said.  
  
"Could've gone to check on her Ladyship?" Tait put in, knowingly.  
  
"Watch it, Tait," the sergeant replied, and sighed. The Ensign probably had, too, which meant that he could be almost anywhere, and it probably was not a good idea to interrupt him.  
  
"If any of you see him afore I do, let him know the Major'd like a word with him," the sergeant replied.  
  
"Where's the Major now, Sergeant?" The question came from behind Fairwood, who spun around, and found himself face to face with the Ensign.  
  
"With the surgeon – broke his leg just afore we boarded the _Revenant_ , sir," the sergeant replied. "D'you need someone to show you where to go?"  
  
Sharpe shook his head. "I reckon I can find it easy enough, Sergeant, thanks."  
  
He headed down to the darkness of the orlop, where the surgeon was still hard at work, braced against the increasing swell and motion of the ship. This was a place lit only by the feeble orange glow of the lanthorns swinging from hooks in the deck-beams.  
  
"Mister Sharpe," a familiar voice said, the sing-song Welsh accent dulled with pain. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I have a favour to ask you, if you wouldn't mind?"  
  
Sharpe knelt by the Marine officer, whose leg had been splinted and bandaged. He was out of the way now, but still unable to move because nobody had time to find him a pair of crutches and he could not put any weight on his leg.  
  
"I think we're in for a bit of a blow, Ensign, and I won't be any good to anyone in a storm, not on crutches. And you may know that Lieutenant Swallow was killed." Llewellyn paused, and Sharpe nodded.  
  
"Aye, though I didn't see it at the time, sir."  
  
"Well, I wanted to ask if you'd mind filling in for him, to help me? It ain't a hard job, really, and you know the boys by now – and they know you, which is more important. They've got to thinkin' of you as one of the Corps, and that's a pretty high compliment. So would you do me the favour of bein' my lieutenant till we reach England?" He shifted a little, and sighed in exasperation. "Don't break your leg, whatever you do. It's the very devil, not being able to do anything." He looked up at Sharpe's perturbed expression. "The duties ain't hard – and you can always ask me or one of the NCOs if there's anything you're not sure of."  
  
Sharpe took a breath. "Aye, sir, I'll do it."  
  
"Thank you," Llewellyn said, closing his eyes in sudden relief. He opened them again a moment later. "Let Sergeant Fairwood know, won't you? The boys won't give you any problems, I'm sure they won't. They're good enough lads."  
  
Sharpe merely nodded, feeling grateful that he had had the chance to get to know them first, before being put in command. Well, command under their own officer, which was different, and probably better.  
  
"I'll be up and about soon enough," Llewellyn added. "They just need to dig up a pair of crutches from where everything got shoved into the hold." He smiled. "That's the only reason I'm still down here. Can't walk on a busted leg, after all."  
  
The storm blew itself out in a week, and although it was not the most violent storm the Navy had ever encountered, after such a battle as they had just fought, it meant that the majority of the prizes were lost, cast ashore or sunk. Captain Chase spent most of his time on the quarterdeck - _Pucelle_ was his ship and if anything happened to her, he would face a court of enquiry. The other officers, three Lieutenants and the Master, were nearly on watch-and-watch since Lieutenant Haskell's death. Lieutenant Peel had been wounded, although not dangerously, and insisted on doing his share of the duties, despite his wound.  
  
Sharpe sat across the wardroom table from Major Llewellyn, with Sergeant Fairwood in attendance, standing with his hat under his arm. Llewellyn was scribbling on a scrap of paper, occasionally chewing the end of his pencil. "We've lost eleven men dead, Sharpe, and we've got twenty-six wounded. Doesn't sound like a lot, but we only had seventy-eight to start with, and that didn't include Swallow and me. Which leaves..." Here he paused to scribble some calculations. "Forty-one without a scratch. Though some of the wounded can hold a musket."  
  
"Some of them won't like you callin' 'em wounded, sir," Sergeant Fairwood put in. "Gilchrist, for one. He got hit with a splinter but all it's goin' to leave him is a nice scar."  
  
If it doesn't go bad, that is," Llewellyn said gloomily, re-calculating. "Call it fifty who can do duty right away." He looked across at Sharpe. "It's bad, Sharpe. They like having their all-night-ins when they can get them, but with numbers reduced this much, it'll be nearly watch-and-watch for 'em. Besides which we've lost Sergeant Armstrong, so I need to make Kinsley up to Sergeant in his place. And that leave me with no Corporals." He looked at Sharpe ruefully. "It's enough to drive anyone to distraction."  
  
"Not really fair on anyone, gettin' made up when the detachment's as stretched as this, sir," Fairwood observed.  
  
"No," Sharpe said, hoping that nobody was going to ask for his opinion on matters – he really was not as closely acquainted with the Marines as all that, and knew that he hadn't met all of them, even after this voyage.  
  
"I'd suggest Tait and... hmm. Not Darker, he's too laid-back, sir."  
  
Llewellyn tapped the end of his pencil on his paper, thinking. "Gilchrist won't thank me."  
  
Fairwood gave a grim chuckle. "No, sir, he won't. What about Lyle, sir? He's conscientious enough, and a good lad. Gets on all right with the others."  
  
"Hmm. Lyle it is, then." Llewellyn made a note. "At least Kinsley has some idea of what your duties are and how to approach things. If you could both try to give the new Corporals a few moments to help them figure things out, I think that would be appreciated." He pulled a fresh sheet of paper over. "Mister Sharpe, if you take the larboard watch and I'll take the starboard – for Divisions, at least. We don't keep watches like the sea-officers do, not being needed to run the ship."  
  
He drew a line down the middle of the sheet. "Best give the worst of the trouble-makers to me. They'd likely lead Mister Sharpe a merry dance if he were to have them. If you don't mind being in Mister Sharpe's division, Fairwood, with Tait, and I'll have Kinsley and Lyle, I think it'd be fair."  
  
"Appleby ought to take Reece's place as your servant, sir," Fairwood said, as though just remembering that Lieutenant Peel and Private Reece had both died, leaving one officer without a servant and a previously-employed servant without someone to serve.  
  
"Hmm. Well, if he don't mind, I don't."  
  
The _Pucelle_ 's remaining Marines were unaware of how things were developing in the wardroom. Their numbers were very depleted now, with men on duty, men still in the sickbay and others gone to meet their Maker.  
  
"Don't reckon I mind havin' that Mister Sharpe for an officer, though I've never had one who's come aft like he done," Simmons said, trying to stitch a tear in his shirt where a splinter had passed through it.  
  
"Me neither," Lyle replied, trying to get a bloodstain out of his bayonet-belt. "Bugger. Might have to just pipeclay over it. Rather get it out first though."  
  
"It ain't like you can just soak it, like a shirt or summat," Hawkins said, looking over his shoulder critically. "Be a damn sight easier if you could."  
  
"Get out of it – ain't you got your own stuff to fret over?" Lyle replied, looking up with a frown.  
  
"Probably." Hawkins gave a shrug and sat down again, only to be interrupted as Sergeant Fairwood came down the companionway from the wardroom. "Tait an' Lyle, the Major wants you. And if anyone knows where the Corporal is, he's wanted too."  
  
The two Marines named looked at each other in worried surprise, before hastily pulling their jackets on, straightening themselves and trying to appear as presentable as they could.  
  
"Corporal Kinsley went to check the sentries, Sergeant – he's prob'ly down by the spirit-room or somewhere," Darker said. The sergeant nodded and headed down a deck, leaving the Marines looking at each other, wondering what was going on.


	10. Homeward Bound

The newest NCOs returned to the lower gundeck, each holding a white shoulder knot1 and looking extremely bemused by the interview that had taken place. They had barely slipped them into place on their shoulders when Sergeant Fairwood came down to announce that now the weather had cleared, the Captain was intending to hold a burial service for those Pucelles who had died in the battle or since due to wounds sustained in it.  
  
There was a general scramble to get into uniform. The ship was still in too much disarray for the Captain to have held Divisions and his weekly inspection and although a burial service wasn't exactly 'church', it was a Sunday, and a solemn occasion – they had all lost friends.  
  
Oxley pulled his jacket on and found his hat and scowled at the dent in the side before trying to sort it out. It was still visible when he put it on his head, despite his best efforts.  
  
"Oxley," the sergeant said, looking around for the drummer.  
  
"Sar'nt?"  
  
"Let Mister Sharpe know he's welcome to be at the auction after – an' Major Llewellyn'll be there an' all."  
  
"Aye, aye, sir," Oxley replied, hesitating before turning to head topside.  
  
"Sir?" he said, tapping gently at Mister Sharpe's cabin door. When had he begun to think of it as Mister Sharpe's cabin, rather than the Captain's? He wasn't sure.  
  
"Come in!"  
  
He pushed the door open, to find that Mister Sharpe was already dressed and waiting. "Oh. Um." of course the officer knew that there was going to be a service today – the Captain would have told him first.  
  
"Yes?" Sharpe replied, slightly amused by the taken aback expression on the lad's face.  
  
Oxley pulled himself together. "Sar'nt Fairwood sent me to say that... well, there's gonna be an auction of kit after, an' us'd like you to come. Please, sir?"  
  
As Sharpe hesitated, the bell began tolling and the bosun's calls were heard, calling all hands on deck.  
  
"Please, sir?" Oxley said again, and added, "we'd like you to, sir, honest we would."  
  
"All right, then." Sharpe gave a brief smile, despite his private misgivings, and found his hat. "Reckon we ought to get out on p'rade, then."  
  
Oxley opened the door for him. "Ain't a proper p'rade, this, sir," he said, following the Ensign out of the cabin and closing the door behind them.  
  
The men were moving forward, as many of them as could get on deck. A 74 had a crew of several hundred and even after the recent battle, _Pucelle_ 's crew was still a reasonable size. Normally a burial at sea would be carried out by the officer in command of the dead man's division, but this was an exceptional circumstance and Captain Chase wanted to do this himself.  
  
A grating was rigged over the standing part of the foresheet in such a way that two men could tip it and the canvas-wrapped body lying on it, covered with the Union Flag, would slide into the sea, while the flag was retained.  
  
"Off hats!"  
  
There was a brief shuffle as men removed their headgear, and Captain Chase opened his prayer book at the marked page and cleared his throat.  
  
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the souls of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, (when the Sea shall give up her dead,) and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at His coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself."  
  
He nodded at the two seamen by the grating and they turned to tilt it so that the shrouded body, weighted with a cannon-ball at its feet, slid into the cold green water with a dull splash.  
  
Two sailors stepped up and placed another corpse on the grating before tipping it into the sea. Two Marines followed them, repeating the action. Captain Chase turned to a list and began reading the names of the fallen, his words punctuated every few moments by another soft splash.  
  
There were not as many bodies as there were names. Those who had fallen in the first hour or so of the battle had been unceremoniously dumped into the water, and even after the battle, bodies had been dropped overboard. Had there not been a storm, there would be far more bodies to bury now – all of these were men who had died of their wounds since the end of the fighting, nearly a week ago.  
  
The Captain finally closed his Prayer Book, with his list of names tucked inside, and the final body went down to its final resting place. The gathered crew took a shaky breath before the Captain ordered "On hats!" in a voice that was rather less steady than usual.  
  
There was a brief swirl of a gown on the poop deck as Lady Grace descended the ladder, returning to her cabin before the sailors could get too rowdy, though it was Sharpe's opinion that it would take until after Up Spirits that evening that the crew would return to being anything like their usual cheerful selves. He gave a wry grimace. He was probably wrong, of course; sailors seemed to be altogether more resilient than soldiers, but then, he had never seen the aftermath of a battle at sea, and had no idea about that sort of thing – and they had lost Lord Nelson, too.  
  
"Sir?" There was a voice at his elbow, and Sharpe realised that it was the second time he had been addressed. He turned, to find Corporal – no, _Sergeant_ \- Kinsley.  
  
"Yes?" he said, his voice unexpectedly rough. He cleared his throat. "I meant, yes, Sergeant?"  
  
"I don't know if that young scamp Oxley told you, sir, but we're goin' to be auctionin' the dead men's kit off – to send the money home to their folks. And, well, the lads would take it kindly in you if you'd come, sir." He gave a quick smile. "Bein' as you's practic'lly a M'rine an' all now, sir."  
  
"He had said something, yes. Though... Are you sure, Sar'nt?"  
  
Kinsley shrugged, looking a little bemused at being addressed by his new rank. "'Course we's sure, sir. The lads... Well, sir, they've got to thinkin' of you as a M'rine. They'll be pretty disappointed if you don't come."  
  
Sharpe managed a smile, somehow. "Then I'll be there."  
  
There were various pieces of kit spread out over one of the mess-tables slung between two of the big guns, abreast the mainmast. A man's uniform and equipment belonged to him, although his musket and side-arm remained Crown property, because he paid for them himself, out of the bounty he received when he joined, and his pay afterwards. It had been the same for Sharpe himself, although in the Army a dead soldier's uniform and equipment was taken back into Stores, their value taken off what the soldier owed.  
  
Of course, uniform and equipment wasn't all that was for sale. There were personal effects, too – pipes, playing cards, dice, knives used for wood carving or scrimshaw work, cutlery, tankards... Small things that would have cost the owner a few pence to buy, but that had become intensely personal. Some things had been set aside to be sent back to the men's families, along with the money raised from this sale.  
  
Sergeant Fairwood raised a hand for silence. "Right. One pair of trowsers, well-made, nearly new."  
  
"Tuppence." Darker's voice.  
  
"Thruppence." That was Cray.  
  
"Thruppence ha'p'nny," Ingalls put in.  
  
"Anyone else?" The Sergeant looked around. "There's plenty of stuff here, an' the money's goin' to their folks at home."  
  
There was a pause. "All right, Ingalls, you got 'em."  
  
Ingalls moved forwards and paid over a few coppers, taking the trowsers in return.  
  
"Next is a set of buttons – enough for a coat with a couple spare – I counted 'em."  
  
Why anyone would have a whole set of spare buttons, Sharpe couldn't say. They went for sixpence, though, and the new owner, Morgan stepped back with a wry look. On the other hand... Morgan had been topside in his off-duty jacket, because he'd lost several buttons from his red coat in the fighting somehow. He had a lot of sewing ahead of him before his coat could be considered fit for parade.  
  
The piles of things grew steadily smaller. Partway through, the newly-minted Corporal Lyle took some men to relieve the sentries, who came in to join the bidders. Sharpe noticed how the Sergeant had not sold all the uniform items at the beginning of the auction, in order to give the new arrivals an equal chance of replacing some of their stuff.  
  
Eventually the last items were sold, and Sergeant Fairwood weighed the pouch of coins with a thoughtful look. Sharpe had noticed that most of the coins were coppers, although the odd silver fourpence or sixpence had changed hands. The Ensign moved towards the Sergeant, acknowledging the respectful nods from the quiet, serious Marines as they passed him.  
  
"What happens to the money now, Sergeant?" he asked quietly.  
  
"I'll give it to the Major, sir, an' he'll make arrangements to have it divvied up among the dead men's kinfolks, when we get home," the Sergeant replied. "It ain't much, considerin', but it's somethin', at least."  
  
Sharpe nodded. At least Army wives had the chance to accompany their husbands to war, he thought. There were women aboard the _Pucelle_ apart from Lady Grace, but they were the wives of warrant officers, men of rank among the foremast hands, who had cabins to give them at least the illusion of privacy.  
  
Which was all his cabin offered, really, although Lady Grace had not complained. And now that her husband was dead... though it was crass to be thinking such things about a dead man, even one whom nobody had liked.  
  
Sharpe was still thinking as he made his way around the ship in his role as Llewellyn's deputy, making sure that everything was all right and the sentries had everything they needed. Llewellyn had done his best to prepare Sharpe for this, and had even sent Oxley with him the first few times to make sure that he did not get lost, something Sharpe was aware that it would be all too easy to do.  
  
"Though all you have to do is keep walkin' till you find a companionway to go up," Oxley confided, his eyes bright even in the dim lanthorn-light. "An' then keep goin' up till you come out somewhere you know, see, sir. Mind your head!"  
  
This instruction was only just in time to prevent Sharpe knocking his head on a beam.  
  
"It gets low down here, sir," Oxley added. "You can allus tell them what's new to the sea, 'cause they keep knockin' their heads when they come to attention."  
  
"I just bet they do," Sharpe said, scowling at the beam.  
  
At least this time he could dispense with the lad's services and be pretty confident of still finding his way. And, he reasoned, if he did get lost, all he would have to do would be to keep walking until he found someone who could tell him where he was and how to get to where he _wanted_ to be.  
  
Everything was all right with the sentries, and Sharpe returned to the wardroom, where Major Llewellyn was sitting. The Marine officer looked up as Sharpe came in.  
  
"Ah, Sharpe. Got something for you," he said, and dispatched the wardroom steward to his cabin to bring it out. "I'd get it meself, only..." he indicated the crutches with a rueful look. The man was back a moment later, holding out a bundle of thick blue broadcloth towards Sharpe, who frowned, puzzled, taking it and shaking it out.  
  
"A boatcloak?" he asked, looking up.  
  
"It was Swallow's. Poor fellow won't be needing it now, an' it might as well go to a good home," Llewellyn said, a satisfied look on his face.  
  
"But..."  
  
"It's been bought and paid for. And a British winter after India..." He gave a theatrical shiver, which brought a rueful look to Sharpe's face. He _had_ been feeling the cold, but had been telling himself that he would get used to it.  
  
"Shame I couldn't give you his commission, too," Llewellyn went on. "If you ever have a mind to transfer to the Corps, the boys would love to have you. Well, maybe not 'love' exactly, but I don't suppose they'll ever have a better officer."  
  
"That's not true at all, sir," Sharpe protested, rolling the cloak up into a bundle again.  
  
"Well, you're one of the best they've had, anyway," Llewellyn conceded. "And I must thank you, Sharpe. I honestly don't know how the detachment would have managed without you stepping into the breach."  
  
Sharpe coloured and made some feeble excuse about being needed elsewhere so he could escape the Marine officer's effusive compliments.  
  
"He ain't bad, Mister Sharpe ain't," Simmons opined, shaking his head over a tear in what had until now been his best trousers.  
  
"Can't b'lieve he's a soldier," Hawkins added, looking up from where he was rubbing his brass cross-belt plate with a damp cloth and brickdust.  
  
"He's as good as a M'rine any day – oughta ferget about exchangin' to the Rifles, whatever the hell they are, an' join the Corps," Morgan added.  
  
"What a man oughta do, an' what he _will_ do, are completely diff'rent things, though," Simmons said, looking gloomy as he bent to find his sewing gear. "An' mebbe he'll like the Rifles."  
  
"Aye... but will they like him?" Morgan wanted to know. "The Army's daft-like. They dunno anythin' about officers comin' aft by the hawsehole. They won't do right by him, sure as eggs is eggs they won't."  
  
"Good'n to have in a scrap, too," Gilchrist said.  
  
There was a general murmur of agreement at that.  
  
 _Pucelle_ sailed on, heading ever north until she entered the Channel. The weather meant that she could not head up-Channel and could only try for the Hamoaze and Plymouth. Lady Grace was incapacitated in her cot, and only the most unkind people said it was because of something other than the weather.  
  
Sharpe stared morosely at the approaching anchorage. Next to him stood Major Llewellyn, still on crutches but able to hobble around with rather more agility now. "You'll be all right with the Rifles," the Marine officer said. "Though if you ain't, it'll be easy enough to transfer to the Corps – and there's always the chance of prize money at sea. They won't leave you to rot on shore, not them."  
  
Sharpe sighed and pulled the boatcloak more closely around himself. He felt pretentious wearing it, but he appreciated its warmth.  
  
"Aye, I'll do that, sir," he said, turning to face Llewellyn. "And... thanks. Really. For everythin'. It's been..." He couldn't think of the word he wanted, and tried again. "It's been good to serve with you and the lads, sir. I'd not have missed it for owt."  
  
When he went to see his gear brought on deck, he was somewhat surprised to see Oxley waiting for him, a slightly bereft expression on his face. "I... I jus' wanted to say... we'll miss you, sir," he got out, and abruptly held out a small, cloth-wrapped package. "Ain't much, but... it's summat to 'member us by," he added, obviously swallowing a lump in his throat.  
  
Sharpe unwrapped it to find a Marine's brass cross-belt plate, carefully set into a carved and polished chunk of wood.  
  
"It's from _Revenant_ ," the young Marine confided, biting his lip.  
  
"I..." Sharpe was taken aback. "I don't have anywhere to keep such a thing."  
  
Oxley shrugged. "Well. Still wanted you to 'ave it, like."  
  
"I'll keep it safe, and thank you."  
  
He was taken ashore with Lady Grace, in Captain Chase's own barge. A cheer from _Pucelle_ 's rails made them turn and Sharpe couldn't hold back a gasp. All of _Pucelle_ 's Royal Marine detachment was there, lining the rail, with Major Llewellyn himself on the poop, his sword raised. He brought it down in a flourish to the salute and a volley rang out across the water from the Marines' muskets.  
  
It must have been raining, because Sharpe couldn't see the shore when he turned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The shoulder knot was still the badge of rank for a Corporal in 1805; a Sergeant wore a shoulder knot and a sash. It was not until 1807 that the shoulder-knots were replaced by the more familiar chevrons, in line with Army practice.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years after Trafalgar, some people still remember...

_Northern France, eight years later_  
  
A joint expedition with the Army was not unknown – there were Marines who had been with the Army in Northern Spain since the previous year. What _was_ unusual was that the Marines were working alongside a couple of companies of Riflemen, whoe green jackets testified to the fact that campaigns on land were hard on men and equipment.  
  
What was even more unusual was that one of the Marines, a young Corporal, had served alongside the senior Rifles officer before, in a major naval engagement that was looking increasingly likely to be the last major fleet engagement of this war, a battle that had passed into legend in the eight and a half short years since it had been fought: Trafalgar.  
  
The Corporal moved among his men, a squad under Captain Palmer of the _Thuella_ 's Marine detachment, an officer who had somehow contrived to get his men away from the _Thuella_ 's Captain, a man named Bampfylde who just wanted to be a hero, and into whatever escapade the Riflemen were going to be involved with.  
  
It had been a long, cold few days that had reinforced in the Corporal's mind that he'd made the right decision when he'd decided to enlist in the Royal Marines (although at the time they had simply been His Majesty's Marines).  
  
And now... and now Marines and Riflemen were the defenders of a fort that had been gutted. The well was fouled, the gates burned, the powder soaked, the fort slighted. Some of the Marines were muttering, an ugly sort of sound, and the Corporal scowled at them. "You mightn't know it, but I reckon we've as good a chance as anyone of comin' out of this mess alive," he said.  
  
"You _would_ say that," someone muttered, and the Corporal swung around.  
  
"Watch it, Kershaw," he said, and the man subsided.  
  
"Was only sayin'..."  
  
"Well, don't."  
  
"Aye, aye, Corp'ral."  
  
The Corporal turned to check on how well their powder was doing, and realised that the senior Rifles officer was watching him. "Sir," he said with a salute, and noticed the officer's face clear, as though he had just found the answer to a tricky puzzle. "Oxley, isn't it?" the officer said, turning to fall into step with him.  
  
The Corporal nodded, grinning. "Didn't think you'd remember me, sir," he said.  
  
"I don't think I could forget – not _Pucelle_ , not Trafalgar."  
  
"I 'member _you_ , sir – hadn't really seen an army officer up that close afore, sir." He grinned at the Major. "I see you decided not to join the Corps, though. Shame. Was lookin' forward to havin' you as a M'rine."  
  
Sharpe couldn't help grinning himself, despite his worries over the defences. "No. I don't think the sea agrees with me – and the Rifles were better than I'd thought they would be. And you've done well, too," he added, indicating the younger man's stripes.  
  
They had reached the doorway to the small room that the officers were using, and Major Sharpe paused before passing over a canteen. "There ain't enough for your men to get drunk, but I reckon it'll warm them up a bit."  
  
"Thanks, sir," Oxley replied with a salute, taking the canteen. "And... good luck, sir."  
  
"The same to you, Corporal Oxley."  
  
Oxley returned to his men, the canteen slung over his shoulder. "Right, Up Spirits. Cups out, an' get in a nice orderly queue. It's a gift from Major Sharpe, so don't go moanin' that it ain't as much as your ration."  
  
He rationed it out, finding that it was brandy rather than wine, which meant that it would go further with the same effect.  
  
"How d'you know Major Sharpe, Corp'ral?" Kershaw wanted to know, once the canteen was empty. Oxley slung it back over his head and grinned. "Let me find somewhere to sit an' I'll tell you about Trafalgar, when I was one of Major Sharpe's Marines..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; I hope you've enjoyed this fic!


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